


Speechless

by shoebox_addict



Category: Fake News, Fake News RPF, Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Mental Anguish, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, September 11 Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-14
Updated: 2009-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoebox_addict/pseuds/shoebox_addict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Wifeless AU) After the events of 9/11, Jon is emotionally scarred and suffers from a case of PTSD. Stephen, his partner, must care for him and face the pain of seeing his lover in this condition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speechless

**_Speechless_ **

Dust and smoke swirled everywhere around me. The sidewalk seemed to crumble underneath me, and for all I knew it was. Chaos reigned on the streets where people ran and fled from danger. I tried to run too, but there were too many people in the way. So dark, so dusty, I couldn't see. 

The towers were falling. It seemed like the whole city was falling. Nothing seemed right, I didn't know which way was up. The whole world was a swirling mass of dust and noise and incomprehensible shrieks. People around me searched in their bags and pockets for cell phones to call loved ones. Everyone was screaming, the shrieks bombarded my ears. People's cries of anguish were all that I could hear above the roar of the towers, slowly crumbling. 

Amidst all the rumbling and screaming and anxious phone calls, I wanted to make myself as small as possible. I tried to huddle inside my jacket, but I couldn't escape. Suddenly, everything was a danger to me. Everything that I passed on the way to work or on my way home had become hazardous. Nothing seemed familiar anymore in the dust and the haze. I had only walked a few blocks, but when I looked back I couldn't even see the awning of the studio through the smokescreen. 

I scrambled inside my jacket to find my own phone to call Stephen, but just as I found it, someone knocked into me from behind. I lost my footing and was slammed against the sidewalk. The air rushed from my lungs. When I took a breath once more, dust and smoke flooded my airways. I tried to regain my breath but it was no use. I could feel my chest tightening and my windpipe constricting. I choked as I tried desperately to draw air. 

I clutched at my throat and tried to look around for someone to help me. But everyone else around me was looking for help as well. I coughed and choked but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't catch my breath. I crawled along the sidewalk. If I couldn't breathe, at least I could get out of the way so I wasn't trampled. Someone had already stepped on my hand and it was beginning to throb. 

The world seemed to tremble underneath me. I turned my head to look up and saw one of the towers beginning to crumble beneath its support. It was falling, falling toward the city and falling toward us. The skyline was being destroyed. I'd come to this city years ago with hopes and dreams in my heart and it had been nothing but good to me. I couldn't understand why someone would want to destroy that. 

I felt myself begin to lose consciousness, as I still couldn't catch my breath. I shut my eyes and tried to pray but it had been a long time since I'd said a prayer. Nothing came to mind. I simply tried to send a message to Stephen, tried to tell him that I would be all right. 

But I knew that I wouldn't.

******

"You said there'd be progress," I said, my teeth clenched.

The doctor gave me a grim smile. "All we can do is hope. I've given him all the medication I could possibly prescribe for a condition like this. We'll continue therapy sessions, but I'm not making any promises."

"You already made me damn promises," I said. My muscles clenched, my teeth ground together. One of these days I was going to wear them down to nubs. 

"Keep your hopes up, Mr. Colbert," said the doctor, making his way to the door. "And continue your visits. I do think those are helping."

With that, he left the room. I propped my elbows on the edge of Jon's bed and buried my face in my hands. I breathed in deeply, the antiseptic smell of the hospital getting caught in the back of my throat. I was tired - so tired in so many ways. I raised my head and turned to look at Jon. He was sleeping peacefully, his chest rising up and down, completely unaware of what he was causing. 

I pretended - as I always did when Jon was asleep - that things were back to normal. Before the attack, before Jon had become like this. Before he couldn't speak. Before he appeared as nothing more than an emotionless shell. It was hard to remember back to before this had happened, it was my life now, I had come to accept it. 

Life seemed to start over when the towers fell. A new, strange life where Jon was not Jon.

******

September eleventh hurt me twice. The date just hadn't hurt me enough the first time, so it had to swing around to back the proverbial car over me again, I suppose. They both involved planes - perhaps that was some sort of cruel irony on the part of the cosmos. I still hadn't figured that part out. And I'd certainly tried. Long nights, early mornings, lots of booze, and no answers.

The first time, my father and two of my closest brothers were taken from me. One minute they were there, and then they simply weren't. At least, that's what it seemed like to me. The plane crashed, and they were no more. I didn't know how to feel. I was young, I was naive, I didn't get it. In a sense, I think I didn't know how to feel. That's why I simply retreated into myself and other things, ignoring the outside world that had hurt me so deeply.

I grew up, I moved on, and the hurt subsided. It was still there, but it was never as strong as it had been in those years right after the incident. I put it to rest. I went to college and then on to Second City. My friendship with Paul and Amy had certainly aided in letting the hurt subside. But meeting Jon Stewart was the thing that helped me most of all. 

I met him when he first came to host _The Daily Show_. We'd hit it off immediately and had quickly become inseparable. Soon, we'd been unable to avoid the tension any longer and had made out vigorously at a Christmas party about a year ago. We'd been together ever since.

In some ways, Jon filled the void that had been created by the loss of my father and two brothers. But he was even more than that. He was a lover, a friend, a confidante. I truly believed that he was my soul mate. 

Time went by and I forgot about that first hurt. And it never even entered my mind that the same date could come back to pierce my heart yet again. 

But it did. 

The second time - the more famous one - I didn't _physically_ lose anyone. But I lost them nontheless. 

I'll never forget that day. We'd been arguing the previous day about - of all things - Jon's snoring. He had kept me awake for three nights and I was tired and overwrought and just annoyed. So, I'd snapped at him. I said things I didn't mean just because I wanted to hurt him. I told him that sleeping next to him - with that terrible snoring rattling my brain - wasn't worth the sex we had before settling down to sleep. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I'd felt ashamed and absolutely awful for saying them. It wasn't true, but he'd already said that I was being whiny and ridiculous about the whole thing, and my temper got the better of me. That night haunted me even more than the morning of September eleventh. 

When the plane hit the towers, Jon was down on the street. I'll never forget that morning. We came into the office at the same time - of course we did, we lived together. We'd been running late, so neither of us had had any breakfast yet. 

"Do you want a...bagel or something?" he'd asked me, hesitantly because he wasn't sure if I wanted to talk to him after our fight. 

"No," I'd said. "I'll just have some coffee here in the office."

"Suit yourself." He'd grabbed his jacket and moved toward the door. 

"Hey, do you want to come?"

He asked me to come with him. If I had been there, things would have been different, I know they would have. 

Instead of agreeing, though, I knew I had some segments I wanted to work on before our first writer's meeting of the day. So I declined. Besides that, I wasn't looking for any time alone with Jon just then. I was playing stupid relationship games, making him wait for me to make up with him. What a fool I was. 

The last thing I heard him say was, "I'll see you in a bit."

The planes hit the towers and we all watched, terrified, from the window. The only thing I could think of was that Jon was somewhere on the street. I had no way of knowing where he was. I tried to call his cell phone but there was no answer. I immediately thought the worst as we watched the towers disintegrate. 

Apparently, the smoke and the dust from the tower collapse had triggered an asthma attack when Jon was in the middle of a crowd. He panicked - we assume - unable to breathe, and he'd passed out. When he came to, with the paramedics there, he simply wouldn't talk. Just refused. Some doctors told me it was the lack of oxygen in the asthma attack that had given him brain damage and now he _couldn't_ talk. But I refused to give up on Jon. 

The fact that Jon had lost his speech made it much harder to accept than if it had been anything else. Of course, if he'd lost his hearing or his eyesight or - God forbid - his mobility somehow, it wouldn't be any less painful. But Jon was such a verbal person. That was how he made his living, that was a big part of who he was. The first thing about Jon that won me over - after his adorable giggle - was how intelligent and articulate he was. The man could turn me on with a witty phrase. Now, all that was gone. 

I stubbornly ignored every doctor who said that his inability to speak was caused by brain damage. I knew that couldn't be it. Jon was still there. They said I was deluding myself, but I saw a twinkle in his eye every now and again, as though to tell me he was still there, he was just biding his time. 

For four months, I took him around to doctors, getting opinions and prescriptions and no results. 

"Things don't look too good, I'm afraid," said one doctor. 

"Don't you want to take an MRI or something?" I asked him.

"There is no activity," he told me. "He's not in there. I'm sorry."

"Um," I said. "I'm sorry - I'm not a doctor, so forgive me if this is ignorant, but...don't MRIs check for the very thing you're diagnosing in him? Don't you want to be accurate?"

The doctor sighed deeply and clutched at his clipboard. "I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Colbert, MRIs are very expensive. They actually cost the hospital a lot of money to perform..."

"And you don't want to waste the money on Jon?" I said, trying to remain calm. "Are you kidding me?"

The doctor mouthed wordlessly, trying to come up with something less incriminating to say. But, he'd already said it: Jon wasn't worth it to use his precious, expensive equipment. 

"He's too far gone," he finally said. 

I'd hated this doctor from the minute he'd opened the door to his office. I was sick of doctors. They all said the same thing, they all destroyed my hope. I got right up in his face and sneered at him. "I am _not_ giving up on him. You got that?"

The doctor nodded sympathetically. I hated that nod. I'd been getting that nod non-stop for the past four months and I wanted to smack him right then. "That's very noble of you, Mr. Colbert. And I admire you for it, but he's not there."

"He is," I said, absolutely unwilling to back down. 

The doctor spread his hands. "I'm sorry. There's nothing more I can do."

"Then I'll find someone else."

I tapped Jon on the shoulder to get his attention. He looked down at me from his perch on the examination table and met my eyeline. I motioned to him that we were leaving and he hopped down, ready to leave. 

"Um, well, wait," said the doctor. "Let me just see if your insurance covers it. Perhaps then we can arrange something."

"My insurance does cover it," I said. "I made sure to check before I even came to your office."

The doctor hesitated, as though he were unsure of what to do. He paused between me and Jon and the door. I hoped he was running over the medical malpractice case he could get himself into, because I was thinking of how to file one. Finally, he gave me a brisk nod. "Yes, come with me. We can do this."

I followed Jon and the doctor out of the examination room and into a much smaller room. The doctor gave Jon one of those ridiculous paper gowns to put on. He left us alone and I helped Jon get undressed and step into the gown. When we were finished, the doctor came back and brought us to another room - the room that housed the MRI machine. As soon as he saw the machine, Jon turned around and tried to push past me so he could leave the room. I looked into his eyes and could tell he was afraid. 

"It's okay, Jon," I said, touching his shoulders gently and keeping him away from the door. "You're going to be fine. The doctor just needs to run a test on you."

Jon looked very skittish, shifting his weight from foot to foot and glancing around for a way out. But I made sure to block the door. I hated keeping Jon in a situation where he was afraid, but he needed this test. 

"Hey," I said, trying to meet his darting eyes. "You're okay. I'm here, and I won't let anything bad happen to you."

Jon bit his lip and scratched his knuckles nervously. After a moment, during which I simply wouldn't break his gaze as I tried to make him feel more comfortable, he turned and shuffled toward the MRI machine. 

The doctor told him to lie down on the table and then he tried to explain what was going to happen. Jon still didn't look very comfortable, so I took his hand in mine and he seemed to calm down a bit. 

Not even the experience inside the MRI tube was enough to make Jon talk. I thought for sure it would push him over the edge and make him shout at us to let him out, but he didn't. He was extremely fidgety though, lying still only when the doctor instructed him to.

Once we were finished, I led Jon back to the changing room so he could get back in his regular clothes. He looked so sad and small as he pulled the cloth gown over his head. He'd lost some weight in the past four months and he just didn't look like himself anymore. I handed him his clothes and he quickly pulled them on, shivering in the nippy changing room. 

After a long wait back in the examination room, the doctor came in holding a chart. I looked up expectantly and he nodded to me. 

"Given the results of the MRI, I think we safely diagnose Jon with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

A chill ran up my spine at the diagnosis. I'd heard that before. When my dad and brothers had died, my mom had taken me to a doctor because she was worried about me. All I did was sit in my room and read and - understandably - this concerned her. The doctor had told her I might have a mild case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, the same thing all those soldiers from Vietnam had come home with. Hearing it again, but now in relation to Jon, was eerie. As if there weren't enough parallels between this loss and my previous tragedies. 

I gulped, sat back down, and looked up at him. "Um, really?"

"I believe so," said the doctor, sitting down across from me. "I'm fairly certain it's PTSD. He was actually outside on the street when the towers fell, correct?"

"That's right," I said. I glanced over at Jon, wary of his presence. I always wondered if he was listening to what we were saying, if he understood that we were talking about him. Perhaps he was running that witty commentary of his inside his head. 

"That would certainly qualify as a traumatic occurrence that would trigger PTSD symptoms like Jon is experiencing."

"I only have a sort of base knowledge of PTSD," I said, remembering the doctor's visits with hushed voices and my mom's worried voice. "Could you tell me more?"

"I only know the basics as well, unfortunately," he replied. "People who have experienced a traumatic event are often emotionally disturbed because of it. PTSD is an extension, so to speak, of the fight-or-flight instinct we all have. The person affected may have felt that fight-or-flight instinct at the moment the traumatic event was occurring, but the PTSD causes them to feel like that at all times - even after the event."

"Well...that doesn't sound like Jon," I said, glancing over at him once more. He was seated on the examination table once more, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't look nervous or skittish at all. He just looked...empty. 

The doctor sighed. "As I said, I only know the basics of PTSD, so I'm not sure if Jon is a special case or if he has something other than PTSD."

"Could you treat him here?" I asked. "I'd be willing to pay anything. 

You're the first doctor who has told me it might be PTSD, and that's got to count for something."

The doctor grimaced, perhaps at how earnest I was when he knew he couldn't help me. "I'm afraid not. We're a very small clinic, we don't have an in-house psychiatrist so we aren't equipped to treat PTSD. As it is, this disorder is fairly recent - as is its diagnosis and treatments."

I hung my head. I felt disheartened and foolish for having hope for a split second. "So, you're telling me to go somewhere else?"

"I think that would be best," he said. I looked up to see him nodding in that stupid, sympathetic manner. 

"Thank you for your help," I said, between gritted teeth. I tapped Jon on the shoulder to get his attention. "Come on, Jon."

Jon hopped off the examination table, stuck his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket and followed me out of the doctor's office.

******

They chose me to take over as host of _The Daily Show_. I really had to be forced into it. Jon wasn't _dead_ , for God's sake. I hated how quickly they replaced him, but I understood their need to keep the show alive. They voted me in unanimously as the new host. I was flattered, but the elation I felt at being the host of the show was overshadowed by the constant pressing worry about Jon.

DJ Javerbaum, the executive producer of the show and good friend of Jon's, gave me the news. 

"You want...me?" I said. "You want me to be the host?"

"Yes," said DJ. I could tell from the tight smile on his face that he wanted so desperately to be happy for me. But I knew this was hard for him. "Don't tell the others, but you're head and shoulders above any of the correspondents we have on the show. Also...you have seniority. You were here when Craig was the host."

"That's true," I said, still taken aback at DJ's announcement. "Do I get any say in this?"

DJ had to chuckle a little. "We figured you'd be happy. I mean...it's an increase in pay and you get to be the face of _The Daily Show._

That's...something, right? Why would you turn it down?"

I simply stared at him and he gave me a slight nod. He knew why I would turn it down. A part of me knew that taking Jon's place was an insult to Jon. It wasn't as though he would know, I supposed. I did need the pay increase. If I was going to continue to take Jon around to doctors, trying to find treatment, then I was going to need a steady income. And if I eventually found a place that could treat him, I wanted to be able to pay top dollar for any facilities or medication they had. 

"I'll do it," I said, pulling on my mask to seem excited about the job. 

DJ shook my hand and told me that he knew I'd help them continue the show in the direction Jon had intended for it. 

DJ was right, I _could_ continue the show in the direction Jon had been headed for. When Craig had run the show, it had been almost like a tabloid, focusing mainly on celebrity news. Jon had a much more political-oriented view of comedy and the way he was going, we could turn the show into an unstoppable satire machine. If I could do that, if I could continue his work on the show, I wouldn't feel so guilty for taking his place. 

That was my "job." But I knew that my _real_ job was getting Jon back to his normal self. And I knew it could be done. It was just that, some days, it seemed utterly impossible. If only I could find a doctor who was willing to work with me, and willing to be forthright about Jon's condition.

******

I hadn't kissed Jon in four months. I was too afraid to. There were moments when he'd look at me with the most confused look in his eyes. I just knew that if I tried to kiss him, something terrible would happen. He'd lash out at me, or worse, he'd speak only to say that he didn't know who I was.

Jon was perfectly normal aside from the fact that he wouldn't talk. And sometimes he seemed very confused about who I was or where we were. But he ate on his own, he knew to go to the bathroom, he'd take showers on his own. If the doctors spent a day with him, like I spent every day with him, they'd see that he was essentially fine. I just couldn't get him to talk, and it certainly wasn't for lack of trying.

After 9/11, the show went on hiatus for two weeks. The other correspondents made themselves busy with writing filler material to put on in our time slot. I didn't leave the house for those two weeks, I wanted to be with Jon. 

"Good morning, baby. I love you," I'd say in the morning, rolling over to look at him. 

Jon was usually awake before me, even before the incident. He'd be lying there, looking at the ceiling with his hands folded neatly on top of his chest. If it was a good day, Jon would turn his head, recognize me, and give me the smallest of smiles. If it was a bad day, Jon would simply stare at me, a blank stare, punctuated only by intermittent blinks. On one of those rare in-between days, he'd cock his head and look at me confusedly. On those days, I could usually get him to come around to at least acknowledge me. 

I learned early on that it was no use getting Jon out of bed. He would come into the kitchen when he wanted to, as long as I was there as well. I tried for a while to drag him out of bed, but he was dead weight in my arms. So, I let him stay there - and he made his own way out to the kitchen, where he sat and paged through the _New York Times._ He still read the paper, it was uncanny. I hid the front pages from him because there were still reports about September eleventh. I didn't want him to see those. 

"I'm making waffles," I'd announce. Sometimes he would look up, sometimes he wouldn't. Most of the time, he simply flipped through the paper until he found the crossword puzzle. 

The crossword puzzle was the main reason I knew he must still be in there. Every single day, without fail, he finished the puzzle. Perfectly. I'd check it over with the answers the next day and he never made a mistake. Sometimes he would take all day in completing it. He would spend an hour staring into space, thinking - I assumed - of a solution. Never asked for help, never went to look anything up. 

Time passed and I grew into this new way of life. I put out a bowl of candy for the kids in our building on Halloween. I didn't want them banging on our door. We had a quiet celebration at Thanksgiving. Jon simply worked on the crossword during most of our dinner. Christmas was highly irregular. Jon didn't get me anything, I bought him some Bruce Springsteen CDs that he absolutely loved. He slid his headphones over his ears and simply listened, grinning like a fool. That grin that had once been a response to something I said. 

I tried not to be jealous of Mr. Springsteen. 

Often times at night, we'd be sitting together in bed and Jon's hand would inch over to the remote. He'd snatch it up and change channels until he landed on cNN. I would have been happy to have let him watch it because it seemed to make him happy, but they still had reports about the attacks. It was easier to shield him from the reports in the newspaper, but I did what I could when it came to CNN.

"Let's watch something more upbeat," I'd say, wresting the remote from his fiercely strong grip. 

Jon would fold his arms across his chest and slump into his pillows, clearly pouting. 

"Don't like it?" I'd say. "Then argue with me. Go on, _tell me_ that you want to watch CNN."

Jon would stare at a corner of the room away from me and say nothing. 

My heart broke as I said, "Please? Please argue with me?"

******

When the show came back from hiatus, I was forced to leave Jon alone at the apartment. It hurt like hell to shut the door on him each morning, even if he didn't really realize what was happening.

One morning, though, just as I was shutting the door, I thought I heard a sound. I jumped and hurried to open the door once more. Jon was sitting at the kitchen table, the crossword in front of him, his shoulders slumped. I crept up to him, trying not to make any sudden moves. Just as I came near, he heaved a great sigh. 

A sigh. It was only a soft exhalation, but it was the first sound I'd heard come out of Jon in months. I wanted to fall on my knees and thank God. I settled for falling on my knees next to Jon and smiling up at him. 

"It's okay, Jon," I said, in a soft voice. "I'm here. Do you not want me to go to work today? Do you want me to stay home? What do you want, baby?"

Jon turned his head and looked down at me with doleful eyes. He opened his mouth and I held my breath. Was this it? After all this time, was he going to say something? I waited at least a minute until Jon drew a breath and simply sighed once more. 

"Oh, baby, you're okay, you're safe," I said. I stood up and grabbed another chair at the table so I could sit next to him. Hesitantly, I brought my hands up and he let me cradle his face. "Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong.”

Jon looked at me for a moment and then shook his head. As I watched, silent tears fell from his eyes, streaking down his cheeks. I literally felt an ache in my chest as he sat there, his face contorted as he cried in silence. I didn't know why he was crying - was it because he couldn't tell me what was wrong? Was he reliving that moment down on the street? I had no way of knowing. I simply wrapped my arms around him and let him cry. In exchange, he let me hold him.

******

In between everything and work, I kept scheduling doctor appointments for Jon. Sometimes we drove as far as Pennsylvania. I even tried some doctors down in South Carolina. They all had the same answer for me - all of them were not equipped to treat someone in Jon's condition.

Finally, in the spring of 2002, I found a doctor who told me what I wanted to hear - Dr. Roberts. And he was in the city. Frankly, I didn't care if he was scamming me. But I didn't see how he could be with the results he was giving me. Dr. Roberts was a very tall man in his late forties. His hair was greying at the temples and he put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses to read reports. He looked just like a doctor should, and perhaps that was part of why I was so apt to believe him. 

"There is clear evidence of brain activity on the MRI report," he said, holding out a sheet to me. I took it and examined it. There were splotches of color on parts of the lumpy image of a brain. I couldn't help but smile - Dr. Roberts hadn't griped at all about running an MRI scan on Jon. “He also responded to auditory tests, so he hasn't lost any of his hearing."

"So, what would you say is Jon's diagnosis?" I said, holding the picture up to the light.

Dr. Roberts shook his head. "Well, he's simply experienced a very powerful psychological trauma. Considering that he was on the street when the attacks occurred, and they occurred in conjunction with an asthma attack - which is already fairly traumatic on its own - it would seem his sense of safety and security has been shaken. He's almost reverted back to a child-like sense of life."

"Oh," I said, softly. The other doctor hadn't had nearly as much information as Dr. Roberts appeared to have. It was very comforting to get some real information for once. I felt as though he were presenting me with a much more hopeful scenario. 

"Yes. He's retreated back into himself because of this highly traumatic event."

"Why hasn't this happened to everyone who was on the street at that time?" I asked him. 

"Well...different psyches react differently to stimuli," he explained. 

I bristled. "Are you saying that Jon is weak?"

"No!" said Dr. Roberts, quick to correct himself. "Not at all. That's not what I was implying. Everyone is wired differently, it doesn't mean that some people are stronger or weaker than others. It's simply a dissonance in how they react to events."

I thought for a moment and remembered the diagnosis that had been, seemingly, a dead end. The diagnosis that had reminded me so much of my past. I was hesitant to bring it up - even though it would mean an end to my search for treatment for Jon, it dredged up unpleasant memories and I almost wished it wasn't the diagnosis. I remembered that time in my life - it certainly hadn't been pleasant. I didn't want Jon to go through that as well. 

I looked over at Jon. He was just looking down at his hands, which were folded in his lap. No matter what past demons it brought up for me, at least a diagnosis could get us closer to restoring Jon to his previous self. I took a deep breath. "Um...would you say this is...Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?"

"Yes," said the doctor, nodding. I studied his face - he seemed concerned but he certainly didn't seem hopeless. "That would be the official diagnosis. Do you know anything about it?"

I gave a slight nod, aware that an explanation would mean revealing some of my past to this complete stranger. I decided I didn't want to tell Dr. Roberts about the extent of my experience with PTSD unless he asked. So, I simply said, "A bit. Another doctor mentioned it as well, but he said he didn't have the resources to treat Jon."

Dr. Roberts nodded, sympathetically, but not in that same cold, condescending manner the other doctors had. "Well, it seems you've found your way to the right place now. We do have experts on hand who can deal with PTSD patients and I, myself, have studied the disorder extensively."

For the first time in months, I felt the weight on my shoulders lift just a bit. I actually smiled. "Okay, doctor, what can you tell me about PTSD?"

"Well," he said, folding his hands in his lap. "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder occurs when a person witnesses a disturbing event. Obviously, when Jon witnessed the collapse of the Twin Towers...that was disturbing to him. In time, we may learn why this particular incident was so disturbing particularly to Jon. As I said, not everyone gets PTSD from such incidents, but what matters to us is that Jon _is_ experiencing these symptoms. We need to find a way to treat them."

I glanced over at Jon once more. He was preoccupied with the hem of his favorite gray t-shirt, the one I always laid out for him when we went to a doctor's office. The shirt seemed to make him calmer, less anxious about the visit. I looked back at Dr. Roberts and nodded. 

"Now, it seems to me that Jon is mainly experiencing the symptom of emotional numbness and simply detaching from the world. This is common in PTSD patients. What's odd to me is his refusal to speak. It must be one of those symptoms that is patient specific."

"Talking was...a big part of his life," I said, unsure how to explain to the doctor and unsure why I felt I had to. "That might have something to do with it."

"It very well could," said Dr. Roberts. "I must ask you...has he ever had an outburst of anger at home?"

"No," I said. "He's been nothing but calm when I'm with him."

"That's somewhat good news," he said. "Oftentimes, a stimulus in the outside world will cause a PTSD patient to finally 'snap,' so to speak, and that can be a turning point. Perhaps that will happen once we get Jon into treatment."

"What kind of treatment can you offer him?" I asked. 

"Well, we do have a psychiatrist on our staff," said Dr. Roberts. "And there are a number of medications we can administer - Zoloft and Paxil, for instance. The therapy we usually recommend is called 'talk therapy' and, of course, that won't be any good in this case."

As much as I had taken a liking to Dr. Roberts, I couldn't help but feel a sting when he said this. Perhaps it was just my personal issues with facing that fact that Jon really couldn't, or wouldn't, talk. 

"But...I think we have a psychiatrist who works with autistic children. 

They often don't speak at all either, so he should be able to work well with Jon."

"I see," I said. "So...there's a chance that we could get Jon back to his normal self?"

"Certainly," said Dr. Roberts. "It may take a while, but I think it's definitely do-able."

"What do you need from me?" I asked. I was prepared to pay top dollar if it would help Jon recover. 

"If you let me keep him here at the hospital, I can do some tests. We can try some medication on him, and we may be able to coax him back out with therapy sessions."

"You really think it would work?"

"Stranger things have happened, Mr. Colbert," he said.

This was my proof, this was my evidence. Now someone had proved what I had known along. Jon was in there. He just needed to feel safe - needed incentive - to come back out.

As much as I loved having Jon at home, so I could be with him nearly every minute of the day, I knew the hospital could help him. Besides, I was beginning to feel more and more guilty about leaving him alone when I went to the studios. 

I checked him in at the beginning of April. They gave him a room with a window - but not one that looked out on the skyline. The doctor told me that since Jon was suffering from some sort of emotional trauma brought on by the terrorist attack, the skyline might remind him of the incident and only cause him to retreat further into himself. I wondered if seeing the skyline might bring about the turning point Dr. Roberts had mentioned, but he said it was too soon for that. 

The first night Jon spent at the hospital, I got a phone call. 

"Hello?"

"Mr. Colbert, this is the hospital. We're worried about your, er, friend."

Immediately, I was wide-awake even though it was three in the morning. 

"What? What's the matter?"

"We don't know," said the man. "He's just sitting up in bed, wide awake, staring at the wall."

"Oh," I said, feeling relieved that this was something manageable. 

"Well, he's had insomnia ever since I've known him. And longer, from what he told me."

"We're worried that he's having trouble adjusting to the hospital. I mean, you're not here, and that may be triggering this response in him."

It repulsed me, the way they talked about Jon as though he were a test subject in some grand experiment. 

"I think he'll be fine," I said. "I've been with him many times when this has happened. Either he'll calm down and get to sleep, or he'll sleep tomorrow."

"Are you sure? I think he'd probably fair better through the night if you were here."

"How is he going to learn?" I said, rubbing a hand over my tired, itchy eyes. "If I go there tonight, he'll never learn that I won't be there at night."

"Are you sure?" said the man. I rolled my eyes. He was probably an intern or an orderly, someone who was just biding his time until he got to be a doctor. He didn't care about Jon. 

"Yes, I'm sure," I said. "If this is how he's going to be...if this is how we're going to live, then it's time to get used to it."

As I said the words, it was almost as though I was trying to convince myself as well as the man on the phone. 

"If you say so," he said. "What if he asks for you?"

His casual, off-hand remark cut me deep. It was just some stupid kid who didn't know what he was talking about, that's all it was. But it hurt so much more. It was an illustration of just how different our lives had become. I took a deep breath, said, "They didn't brief you very well, did they?" and hung up.

*****

"And now, here it is, your Moment of Zen."

I'd been at the hosting job for several months now, but it still stung to say those words. They seemed like such a 'Jon thing.' I felt like a thief to be saying them instead of him. I really couldn't help but have moments like this no matter what I was doing at work. I had worked under Craig before at _The Daily Show_ , but I'd really thought of the show as Jon's personal pet project. He'd breathed so much life into it. All I could do now was try to continue the work he'd begun.

A few weeks earlier, during the question-and-answer portion of the show taping, someone had asked about Jon. 

"Um, I was just wondering how Jon Stewart was doing? I'd heard he was in the hospital, so...yeah," she said, nervously sitting down again after she'd asked her question.

I had to admit, I was thrown off by her question. I'd assumed that the fans knew what happened to Jon - maybe not the specifics, but the basics at least - but they'd never asked me personally. I did my best to answer her question. 

"Well, he's doing as well as he can under the circumstances," I said, trying to keep things relatively vague. "He's getting the help he needs."

The very next person to ask a question said, "I'm glad to hear that Jon is doing well. I just wanted to say that you're doing a great job in the host's seat, Stephen."

The audience broke out in applause at this and I hung my head, half pleased that they liked what I was doing and half ashamed that they liked me hosting in Jon's stead. 

"Thanks. Thank you," I said, finally, signaling for them all to stop their applause. "I, um, I'm glad you think so. But, I'm sure Jon will be back as soon as he can."

The last question of the night really wasn't a question at all. A young girl with a brightly colored t-shirt stood up when she was called on and cleared her throat. "Um, I just wanted to let you know that my friends and I made a card for Jon. we, um, gave it to the audience coordinator guy and we just wanted to make sure he gets it."

I was completely taken aback by her gesture. I took it as a sign showing just how much Jon was beloved - that his fans would make a get well card for him. I had to hold back tears of gratitude as I thanked the girl and promised her I'd get the card to Jon. What I didn't tell her was that Jon may or may not even realize what the card was for or who it was from. 

After the show, I hurried backstage in search of Bob, our audience coordinator, to see if I could track down the card. I nearly missed him as I hurried off to my dressing room but he grabbed me on the way there.

"Hey, Stephen!" he shouted after me. I spun around and saw Bob standing there with something very large and very colorful in his hands. 

"Hey," I said, sprinting down the hall to meet him. "Um, I think you have something for me?"

"Well, it's for Jon," he said. "But, yeah. One of the girls in the audience gave it to me as she came in."

Bob handed the card over to me and I took it gingerly, not wanting to bend or crease it in any way. It was a rather amazing site to see. This girl and her friends had taken a large sheet of construction paper, folded it in half and plastered it with pictures and miniature posters from Jon's movies, magazine articles, and a few promo pics from _The Daily Show_. 

"This is, like, the nicest thing in the world," I muttered, staring at the card in amazement. 

"The people loved Jon," said Bob, shrugging. "I mean, you know, not that they don't love you, but..."

"No, no, I know," I said. "Believe me. If anyone understand their love of Jon, it's me. And I don't want to replace him. He'll be better and back to the show before you know it."

Bob looked doubtful, but he made a good effort of smiling encouragingly and nodding to me. I appreciated the facade. 

"I'll get this to him tomorrow when I go to visit," I said. "And could you work on getting a thank you note to that girl?"

"I already took down her address," said Bob, grinning more genuinely this time. 

"Thanks," I said, grinning. I turned on my heel and headed for the dressing room. Once there, I just sat down and read the card for Jon. 

It was amazing. This girl, it seemed, belonged to an online fan club for Jon and the show. She had gotten all these _get well_ messages from the members, printed them out, and pasted them into the card. It was really moving to read all those kind words from complete strangers - complete strangers who wanted Jon to get better just as badly as I did. 

I wanted to cry. I felt like at least someone should cry over the outpouring of emotion in this card, because Jon probably wasn't going to. But, I couldn't. I recognized this feeling from all those years ago, the feeling of having completely dried-up tear ducts. I just couldn't cry.

*****

The next day, I went to visit Jon in the hospital and made sure I had the get well card in my messenger bag right next to that day's newspaper to give to him. I couldn't hide a slight bounce in my step as I walked to Jon's room. I had high hopes for the card. Maybe this was foolish in the situation, but it was certainly something to cling to.

When I entered his room, he was sitting up in bed, staring out the window. I approached slowly, not wanting to startle him. 

"Hey, Jon," I said, softly. Jon's head spun around as if I'd shouted. But his expression quickly changed from one of fear to one of happiness at seeing me there. "I brought something for you, Jon."

I expected Jon to sit up straighter in bed when he heard I had something for him. Instead, Jon's expression and posture stayed the same and he seemed almost disinterested. It was easy to get discouraged, that was for sure. It was frustrating to get absolutely no response from him day in and day out. But, I had to keep trying for his sake. 

So, I pulled a chair up to the edge of the bed and sat down next to him. I reached in my bag for the newspaper first, but then I remembered how entranced he became by the newspaper. If I gave it to him before the card, he might not pay attention to the card. I really wanted to try to get the message through to him that people wanted him back to his normal self. 

"Jon," I said, making sure I had his attention. "I don't know if you remember, but...you used to be the host of a show called _The Daily Show._ "

The words felt so strange and surreal coming out of my mouth. You _used to be_ , as though it had happened years ago. Only seven and a half months ago, Jon had been sitting in the seat I sat in now every night and making people laugh. And yet, it felt like that had all happened in another lifetime. Is that how it felt to Jon? 

Jon looked at me with blank eyes as I explained. Finally, I just shook my head. "No, well, you don't understand. That's all right. You don't have to get the details, really. Some fans of yours made you a card - that's the important thing."

At this point, I brought the card out of my bag and up onto Jon's lap. Jon hardly seemed to notice it - and this was quite a feat since it was so colorful and eye-popping. 

"Here you go," I said, almost wanting to snap my fingers in front of him so he'd pay attention. "They...they made this for you."

I didn't know what else I should do. Jon sort of glanced down at the card quickly, but he didn't pore over it the way I had. I had expected, I guess, that he would at least take it in his hands. He didn't even do this, he simply let it lay on his lap, as though he wasn't sure how to interact with it. 

"Jon," I whispered, almost reaching forward to take his hand. 

"Don't...don't you remember?"

Of course, Jon didn't answer. He turned his head to stare at me for a moment but then he quickly resumed his staring contest with the outside world, his gaze transfixed on the window. 

"O..okay," I said. I hated the way I'd become around Jon. Since he'd been put in the hospital, I felt like I had to tiptoe around him. Why had it been easy before? Perhaps because we were still at the apartment, it had been easier to pretend nothing was wrong. Now, it was blatantly obvious and every visit felt like time spent with an invalid, not my Jon. 

I didn't know what else I should do. The card lay, forgotten, on Jon's lap and I didn't want to force him to look at it. The silence in the hospital room was absolutely deafening and after a while, I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed the remote control from the table near Jon's bed and turned on the television. 

Bad timing. The TV was turned to a channel that was showing some local news broadcast. I glanced at it and then did a double take because Jon's face was on the graphic next to the anchorman. 

"It's been six months since Jon Stewart disappeared from public view," said the anchorman. "Leading his fans to wonder if he will ever return to host The Daily Show."

I gulped, my stomach churned. I wanted to change the channel, but another part of me wanted to leave it on to see if any of it jarred something inside Jon. Maybe hearing the anchorman talk about this would stimulate his memory. So, I left it on and watched Jon carefully. 

"Stephen Colbert, once a correspondent on the show, has now taken over Jon's hosting duties. Fans have been very receptive to Colbert's arrival as their new host, but several fans have expressed disappointment at the absence of Jon."

The anchorman looked down at his desk and they rolled a clip of an interview with a young man on the street. 

"Yeah, of course I miss Jon," he said. "I mean...Colbert is doing a good job, but _The Daily Show_ was all about Jon. I hope he comes back soon."

The screen jumped to the image of about five young girls with their arms around each other, grinning. In unison they said, "We love you, Jon! Come back soon!"

The camera cut back to the anchorman who was frowning slightly. "We haven't heard anything from Mr. Stewart or Mr. Colbert as to Mr. Stewart's condition since a statement was released saying he'd been put in the hospital."

Jon didn't budge one bit. The local news moved on to a report on some sort of beetle that was attacking trees in Central Park, and Jon remained where he was - slightly slumped against his pillow with his eyes fixed on the window. 

"...how?" I murmured, still watching Jon. "How can you be like this? How can you not be yourself? I..."

I couldn't take it anymore. The silence, the news report, and Jon's ignoring me were just too much. It all closed in on me and I couldn't breathe. I got up from the chair and hurried out into the hall without even saying goodbye to Jon. Once I was outside the hospital room, I just leaned against the wall and concentrated on breathing. 

I knew it was bad, but I guess I didn't realize how bad until I'd tried to give him the card. He didn't even notice it. Okay, it had been unrealistic to hope for a big reaction or something. But, a nod or a smile would have been nice. How could he just have no memory of his previous life? I had to tell someone about this - this didn't seem like PTSD and it was scaring the crap out of me. 

I took another moment just to compose myself, and then I went back into Jon's room to get my bag. I snatched the get well card from the bed and stuck it back in my bag. Jon was still staring out the window and I didn't really want to interrupt whatever he was doing. So, I just said a quick, "Bye, Jon. I'll be back later."

I hurried to Dr. Roberts' office and luckily, he was there. He seemed rather surprised to see me. 

"Hi there, Stephen," he said, looking up from some paperwork he'd been working on. "What can I do for you?"

I collapsed into a chair in front of Dr. Roberts' desk and ran a shaky hand through my hair. "Well, I was just visiting Jon."

"Is anything wrong?" he said, immediately leaning forward in concern. 

"I don't know," I said, shaking my head. "I...well, I was coming to visit him because the other night, at a taping of the show, one of his fans gave me a get well card to give to him."

"Isn't that nice?" said Dr. Roberts, smiling kindly. 

"Yes, it's...it's a lovely gesture," I said. "But...I tried to give it to Jon just now and he didn't even notice it or anything. I mean, I guess I expected him to at least raise his eyebrows or something at it."

"What _did_ he do?" asked Dr. Roberts. 

"He just sat there," I said, my gut clenching at the recalled of image of Jon's completely blank face. "I mean, he didn't do anything. There was absolutely no sign of recognition or anything on his face. It...it was heartbreaking. It was...terrifying."

Dr. Roberts sighed softly and took his glasses off. "First of all, I'm sorry, Stephen. I really, truly am. No one should have to go through this with someone they love."

I nodded, wanting him to get to the point. 

"Are you telling me this because you're concerned for Jon's safety?"

"It just doesn't seem like PTSD," I explained. "It seems like something more than that, and I thought you should know in case you need to diagnose him differently or something."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "This is common in PTSD. When a traumatic event happens, oftentimes the brain closes off other parts of the victim's memories or thoughts to them. Suddenly, their timeline just begins and ends with the traumatic event and they can think of little else."

"Oh," I said, quietly looking down at my lap. "That sounds absolutely awful. I mean, Jon must be miserable. Can't we do anything to help him?"

"No more than we're doing right now," said Dr. Roberts. "We'll continue the therapy sessions, of course. Dr. Dempsey - Jon's psychiatrist - says he isn't making noticeable progress, but he's laying a groundwork for things to happen."

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling frustrated with all this talk of hope and no talk of concrete results. "What does that even mean?"

"You'll have to sit in on one of their therapy sessions," said Dr. Roberts, looking down to make a note on the edge of his paper. "Perhaps then you can get a better sense of what Dr. Dempsey is doing for Jon."

"Sounds like a good idea," I said. "Dr Roberts? Thanks for just, you know, listening to my freak out here."

"Not a problem, Stephen," said Dr. Roberts. He smiled at me, but I could see the pity in his eyes.

******

I visited Jon every day at the hospital. I brought him bagels from his favorite place in the morning and ate breakfast with him. He seemed to enjoy it from the small signs that I got. Sometimes after we ate, he let me hold his hand and gently stroke his knuckles. Then I'd go to work. Sometimes as I left, he wouldn't let go of my hand. He looked at me with a pleading look in his eyes but I had to leave. My heart broke every day when I had to wrench my hand from his.

"I'll be back, Jon, I promise," I said, rubbing his hand and nodding at him. 

For a moment, he'd look at me and I almost thought he was going to ask me to stay, plead with something other than his eyes, but he didn't. 

No matter how much it hurt to leave, my heart seemed to heal when I came back to the hospital for dinner. I'd walk into Jon's room and his face seemed to light up. One look from him, one sign that he still knew who I was, and I felt better. 

After a month in the hospital, Jon didn't seem any different to me. At the times when I was visiting, the doctor wasn't there. I always seemed to miss him. But one Friday, I popped in for lunch and Dr. Roberts was there. 

"Oh," he said, seeming surprised to see me. "Hello, Mr. Colbert. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Dr. Roberts. How are you?" I said, standing up to shake his hand. 

"I'm all right," he said, giving me a tight-lipped smile.

"And," I said. "How is Jon?"

"He seems to be progressing," he said. 

"Really?" I said, watching as Dr. Roberts gently took the sandwich from Jon's hand so he could examine him. I watched - an outsider - as Jon let him take the sandwich and almost seemed to prepare himself. This must be the lunchtime routine. "He still isn't talking."

"Yes, that's true," he said, gently probing at Jon's throat. He seemed to be testing Jon's glands. Jon merely sat there, letting him touch and feel here and there. 

"He does seem to be getting used to life here in the hospital," I said. 

"Is that progress?"

"Yes," said Dr. Roberts. "It's important that he assimilates to this new life. That will help him break out of this shell. It's important that he feels comfortable and safe again. Say _ah._ "

To my great surprise, Jon obeyed and opened his mouth. For a split second I believed he was going to repeat what Dr. Roberts had said, but he merely let his mouth hang open and sat there, his eyes cast upward to the ceiling. Dr. Roberts peered inside his mouth and down his throat with a tiny flashlight. He took a tongue depressor from a jar on a nearby table and stuck it into Jon's mouth. Jon gagged and I moved forward, almost unconsciously.

"It's all right," said Dr. Roberts, holding me back with his hand as he peered inside Jon's mouth. He withdrew and Jon swallowed roughly, shaking his head. 

"But...he made a noise," I said, staring at Jon. "Isn't that something?"

Dr. Roberts shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Colbert. I'm sorry. Even mute people can make that gagging sound. It's caused by a contraction of the throat and friction on the uvula."

"Oh," I said. I felt a little foolish for jumping on that tiny little sound, but it was the first sound that had come from Jon in months. Suddenly, I realized that it seemed out of place for Dr. Roberts to be looking at Jon's throat. "Why are you examining him like this if his problem is psychological and not physical?" 

"I have to keep tabs on his vocal cords," he explained. "If they get too out of practice, they could wear out and some real damage could be done."

"What?" I said. "Just if he doesn't talk? He could hurt his vocal cords?"

"Yes," said Dr. Roberts. "Keeping the vocal cords in use helps exercise them. If a person isn't talking, they'll become, well, rusty."

"Oh," I said. 

"Did he ever make any sounds when you were at home with him?" he asked. 

"He sighed once," I said. "But...nothing more than that. Unless he said something while I was at work one day."

"Hmm," said Dr. Roberts. "That is unfortunate. Well, all we can do is continue the therapy sessions and hope that he begins to make even greater strides."

I attended one of Jon's therapy sessions on one of my days off. Since we'd already spoken about it, Dr. Roberts pulled some strings so that I could sit in and see the psychiatrist "do his thing." We moved to a room different from Jon's hospital room. This other room was smaller and housed four large, comfy chairs as well as a desk. Jon and I sat down in two of the chairs, waiting for the doctor to arrive. I reached over and touched Jon's hand gently. He turned and gave me a small smile. 

"Hi there, Jon," said the doctor, when he entered the room. Jon looked up when the man greeted him but - of course - didn't respond. The man turned his attention to me. "Hello. And who might you be?"

"Stephen Colbert," I said, extending my hand for the man to shake. "I'm a...friend of Jon's."

"I see," said the man. "I'm Kenneth Dempsey. I'm Jon's therapist." Kenneth was a man who simply looked friendly. He had a cheerful face, was tall and lanky, and had perfectly coiffed brown hair. 

"Nice to meet you," I said. "I'm just here to see what you do every day with Jon. Just curious, you know."

"That's fine, Mr. Colbert," said Kenneth. "It certainly won't bother me. Now, Jon, are you having a nice day?"

Jon simply stared at the man. I kept my hand on his to let him know that I was there and that he was all right. 

"I thought as much," said Kenneth. "You know, I'm not going to stop asking until you actually tell me how you're doing, Jon. And I know you'll tell me one day. I'm willing to wait."

I liked Kenneth's style. He was straightforward and seemed optimistic about Jon's eventual recovery. He talked to Jon like a real person, not like some sort of experiment or invalid. I was surprised to see Jon actually smiling at some of what Kenneth said to him and even nodding his head. 

"Jon," said Kenneth, at one point near the end of their session. "Do you still think about that day?"

I watched Jon carefully; curious as to how he would react to this question. Dr. Dempsey seemed to be watching him very closely as well. Jon simply turned his gaze from Dr. Dempsey to the window in the corner of the room. He stared at it, as though he were staring into space, and simply didn't give any indication he'd even heard Dr. Dempsey's question.

"I see," said Dr. Dempsey, making a note on his pad. "You're not ready to acknowledge that. That's all right. One day we'll talk about that day. Okay? We need to talk about it so you can talk again. Well, I suppose that's all for today. Are you glad that Stephen came with you today?"

At this question, Jon perked up from his lethargic state, turned to look at me and smiled. He turned back to Kenneth and nodded. Kenneth grinned at us as he closed up his pad of paper. 

"I know he'll be happy to hear you say it for yourself when you can, Jon," he said. "He's waiting for you to tell him once more how much you love him."

Subtly, Jon turned his hand over so that he could hold mine. I stared at Kenneth with a questioning look. How had he known about us? Kenneth stood up from his chair and gently told Jon to wait by the door. Jon did so and Kenneth took me aside by the elbow. 

"How did you know?" I said, immediately. "Did Jon...he couldn't have told you."

"He did, in a way," said Kenneth. "When he first came to me, Dr. Roberts told me that you were the one who'd brought him for his first examination and that you had checked him into the hospital. So, in our third session, I asked Jon about you. Well, Jon lit up like a light bulb at the very mention of you. I asked him if he loved you, and he nodded."

"Oh," I said softly. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. After months of not hearing Jon say this for himself, I wasn't surprised that I had such an emotional reaction just hearing it from a third party. 

"Really?"

"Yes," said Kenneth. "You're a great asset to him, Mr. Colbert. Many people like Jon don't have such a caring and dedicated advocate or caregiver. You truly are helping him, even though it may feel like you aren't getting anywhere."

"Thank you, Dr. Dempsey," I said. 

"Call me Kenneth," he said. "And feel free to come back another time. I'm sure we can break through to Jon soon."

"I really appreciate your optimism," I said. "You seem to really be connecting with Jon."

"Jon is very willing," said Kenneth. "I really believe he wants to talk again. I'm working on getting him to write down some of his feelings next."

"Oh," I said. "That would be amazing."

"And hopefully a step closer to speech again," said Kenneth. "Well, thanks for joining us, Mr. Colbert."

"Call me Stephen," I said, reiterating his request. 

"Certainly - Stephen," he said, smiling.

******

In the middle of the summer, Denis Leary made a trip over to the hospital to see how Jon was doing. I was a bit nervous about what his visit would be like. I'd only met Denis once and the most I knew about him was that he cursed a lot and he was one of Jon's oldest friends from his stand up days.

He showed up unexpectedly on a very hot day in July when I was spending an afternoon watching television with Jon in his room. He stepped warily into the room, as though making sure this was the correct one. He caught sight of Jon in the bed before I caught sight of him. I looked up and saw Denis standing there, raking his hand through his sandy, reddish hair again and again. 

"Fuck," he muttered, still staring at Jon. 

"Hi, Denis," I said. He shook himself and looked up at me. 

"Oh, hi, Stephen," he said, clearing his throat. "How are ya?"

"All right," I said. "Considering."

"Right, right," said Denis, his eyes straying back to Jon's prone form. Jon didn't even notice Denis, his gaze remained steady on the TV. 

"Why did you take so long to visit?" I asked him. 

"Oh, um...you know. Thought it'd be too weird," said Denis. 

"You were scared?" I said. 

"No," said Denis. He was quick to say it, but something in his eyes betrayed his bravado. I had to admit, this wasn't the Denis I'd been expecting. I'd been expecting more swearing, louder greetings to Jon, and a happiness to see his old friend. But Denis seemed stricken by the sight of Jon so silent. 

"Uh-huh," I said. "Well...thanks for coming by."

"Yeah," said Denis. He stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and looked from me to Jon. "Does he...does he ever talk?"

"No," I said. 

"Shit," he breathed. "Do they know what's wrong with him?"

"Psychological trauma, PTSD," I said in a hushed voice. Jon could still hear, after all. "He just hasn't snapped out of it yet."

"Is there anything else wrong with him?"

"Not that they can see," I said. "No brain damage or anything. He simply...doesn't talk."

Denis gulped and watched Jon watching the TV. "Can I...does he know I'm here?"

"I don't think so," I said. "Hang on."

I leaned forward and tapped Jon lightly on the shoulder. He jumped slightly and finally broke his gaze from the TV to look at me. "Hey, Jon? Denis is here to see you."

I nodded in Denis' direction and Jon turned his head slowly to look at him. Denis smiled at him and Jon nodded to him. Denis crouched down a bit so he was at eye level with Jon. 

"Hi, Jonny!" said Denis, trying to be as cheerful as possible. I could tell he was losing it though, his eyes looked suspiciously watery. "I finally came to see you."

Jon smiled, almost politely, and nodded again. I don't know what either Denis or I had been expecting. Perhaps I'd thought that an old friend from his past could help to snap Jon out of it. In any case, it didn't seem to have any earth-shattering effect on Jon. 

"How are you doing?" Denis asked him, reaching forward, perhaps to touch his arm. 

Jon withdrew his arm out of reach of Denis' hand and frowned slightly. 

"Hey, that's okay," said Denis, backing away with his hands in the air. "You never were a handsy guy. Anyway...I bet the food here sucks, eh?"

Jon simply stared at him and Denis' face fell. I felt an enormous outpouring of sympathy for Denis. I'd been living with this Jon for just short of a year now, but it was all new to Denis. Jon turned back to the television and Denis stood up straight once more, wiping his hands awkwardly on the fronts of his jeans. 

"Denis, he doesn't-" I began, but Denis cut me off. 

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I...I gotta get the fuck out of here." Denis turned on his heel and bolted from the hospital room. Jon's head whirled around confusedly. I took his hand in mine and met his gaze.

"Hey, Jon, I'll be right back." Jon nodded and I hurried to follow Denis. I caught up with him at the elevator. He was crying now, but doing a good job of hiding it. 

"Denis...I know it's tough."

"What the fuck, man?" he said. "Honestly. Why the fuck did it have to happen to him? Jon was always...he was always mouthin' off and swearing and joking with me. That's...that's not Jon in there."

"It is, Denis," I said. I touched his arm awkwardly, trying to calm him down. "I know it's tough, but that's still Jon. That's still your friend in there."

"He's so...he's so quiet. It's not right. It's not fucking right," said Denis, jabbing the elevator button angrily. 

"I know," I said. "Don't you think I know that? It's hard for me too, it's hard for everyone."

"You haven't known him as long as I have," said Denis, his hands curled into fists at his sides. "I've known him...fucking forever. We've been through so much together."

"Hey," I said. "I know I haven't know him _as long_ as you, but I think I've gotten pretty well acquainted with him in the past few years. Besides, that's not the point here. The point is doing what's best for Jon. All the correspondents from the show have come to see him, but that's it. Maybe someone from his past would help him."

Denis sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. "You think?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

Denis stared down at his grubby gym shoes for a while. When he finally looked up, there was no disguising the look in his eyes. "Why didn't he remember me?"

I gulped, unsure of how to explain it. "Dr. Roberts told me about this. It seems that...well, life before 9/11, to Jon, seems like a shadow. The memories are foggy because, in his mind, it all begins and ends with 9/11. He's so...shaken by it."

"How the hell do you know any of this if he can't talk? Hmm? If he can't tell you himself, how do you know it's true?"

I shook my head helplessly. "I don't, Denis. I don't. The best I can do is listen to the conjecture the doctors put before me and try to reconcile it with what I see in Jon each day. It makes sense to me, though. Jon is listless and unresponsive. But...maybe if you spend some more time with him, maybe he'll start to remember. Maybe you'll jar something inside him, you know?"

Denis stared long and hard at me. I could tell he was weighing his options, trying to decide what to do. "All right," he said at last. 

"All right, I'll give it another try."

"Attaboy," I said, grinning and clapping him on the back. 

"Don't say that to me, Colbert," said Denis, waving a finger at me. "It's creepy."

I chuckled and walked Denis back to Jon's room. He made a valiant effort and eventually, it seemed like Jon recognized Denis and by the end of Denis' visit, he'd perked up considerably. Denis came to visit at intervals throughout the summer and Jon seemed to truly enjoy his visits. One day, Denis brought a pack of cards with him and they started playing poker. I wasn't sure at first, but Jon absolutely loved it. 

As they sat there, Denis doing all the talking, and Jon grinning like a fool at him - really grinning for the first time since Christmas when I gave him the Springsteen CDs - I had to feel a bit jealous. It was selfish of me, but I got to thinking - if even Jon could spend time with one of his old friends, why couldn't I? 

That weekend, I called up an old friend.

******

I called Paul Dinello because we had known each other for years and he was easy to talk to. I knew he wasn't fond of Jon, but I needed to talk to someone. I hadn't really _talked_ to anyone in months, not a real conversation. There had been doctor's appointments and consultations and sessions with Kenneth, but no friendly conversation.

"Haven't seen you in a while."

"Not since _Strangers_ got cancelled."

Paul nodded, unsure of what to say. "Yup, yup."

I took a sip of my coffee and he took a sip of his and the silence was suffocating me. I opened my mouth to say something but Paul got there first.

"How have you been?" he asked. "You know, with the whole...thing?"

I grimaced at how gingerly he was bringing it up. "Um, thanks for asking," I said. 

Paul shrugged. "You know. I've seen it in the papers and stuff."

"Really?" I said. 

"Yeah, nothing in depth, but they have mentioned it."

"Oh," I said. "So you don't really know what's going on?"

"No, that's why I asked."

I nodded. For months, I'd been surrounded by people who already knew what was going on with Jon, so I hadn't had to explain it to anyone. Now, here was an outsider who probably only knew that Jon was in the hospital. I took a deep breath, readying myself to relay all the details.

"On September eleventh, Jon was down on the street - on his way to the bagel shop - when the towers fell."

"Oh my God." Paul covered his mouth in surprise. He may not be fond of Jon, but I knew he didn't wish him ill. "I didn't know, the papers didn't say that."

"He...had an asthma attack and he passed out," I continued. "When he woke up, he wouldn't talk. Hasn't talked since."

"Holy shit," he muttered. "It's almost been a _year._ "

"I know," I said, dragging my hand through my hair. "Don't you think I know?"

"Well, what is it? What's wrong with him?"

"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," I said. "That's what they say anyways. They're giving him medication and he's seeing a psychiatrist. Nothing much has improved."

"Wow," said Paul. He let out a long, low whistle and that really didn't help. "What is he like? I mean...he's not talking, but, is anything else wrong?"

"No," I said. "He's perfectly healthy otherwise. It's all mental. He hasn't talked to me in months, he's listless, he doesn't seem to care about anything."

"Stephen, I'm so sorry."

I looked up and saw Paul gazing at me sympathetically yet again. To my surprise, I welcomed the pity. Dr. Roberts was sympathetic toward me, but it seemed even he was sympathetic in the sense that it was his job. Even if Paul was only sympathetic to me, even if he didn't really care about Jon, it was nice to see that look on the face of a friend. 

"Thanks," I said, giving him a small smile. "I'm glad I called you."

I fell into the habit of attending all of Jon's therapy sessions. After my third, Kenneth took me aside to tell me that my being there was helping Jon relax and feel more at ease. That was all I needed to hear. As soon as he told me that, I made sure to clear space in my work schedule so that I could always be there. 

At the end of one session, Kenneth walked over to his desk, took something out of his desk and then returned to the cluster of chairs where we were all sitting. 

"I know you still don't feel like talking, Jon," he said. "And you will one day, I promise. But, until then, why don't we try something else?"

At this, Kenneth held up what he had retrieved from his desk - a notepad and pencil. My breath caught in my throat. I had to admit that ever since that first session, when Kenneth had told me he might get 

Jon to write down what he was feeling, I'd been waiting for this day. I glanced over at Jon - he didn't seem so eager. 

"Don't feel like you _have to_ write anything at all," continued Kenneth. "But, I think it'd be a nice communication tool for you until you feel well enough to talk to us again."

Kenneth leaned forward in his chair and gently placed the notepad and pencil on Jon's lap. Instinctively, Jon grabbed them before they fell off his knees. I tried to catch his eye to see a glimpse of what he was thinking, but Jon just stared down at the objects in his hands. 

"That's all for today, I suppose," said Kenneth. He stood up from his chair and Jon and I followed suit. "Jon - could you wait by the door? I'd like to have a word with Stephen."

I had thought that these one-on-one consultations with Kenneth would have become regular after he talked to me during the first session. But he was very conscious of not excluding Jon from our interactions, and I was glad that he kept to a minimum the sessions where he made Jon wait by the door. I couldn't put my finger on it, but it made me feel very sad to see him standing there, like a child who had been sent to the corner. 

"Yes?" I said, leaning close to Kenneth. 

"I can tell you're excited about the notepad," he said. I nodded in agreement. "Don't get your hopes up, okay?"

"Well, I mean, he _has_ actually written things before," I said. 

Kenneth's eyebrows rose at this, so I explained further. "He's been doing the crossword in the _Times_ since the accident. He's always done the crossword and he just never stopped. It was the one thing about him that stayed the same."

"Hmm," said Kenneth. "I didn't know that. Well, perhaps our hopes for this technique should be a little higher. But, there's always the chance that he does the crossword because he knows that it's an escape. I think he knows that if he writes anything on the notepad, we want it to be something about his feelings. He may not be ready for that."

I nodded. "I understand. It would be a big step though, wouldn't it?"

Kenneth smiled at me. "Of course it would. But, please, don't pressure Jon to write anything he doesn't want to. That could set him back and we only want to go forward."

"Of course," I said. It was going to be very difficult for me to not mention the notepad every time I visited Jon. But I knew that pushing him was the wrong thing to do. 

After four days of visiting Jon and noticing the notepad simply discarded on Jon's night table, I began to stop thinking about it. The lack of success was only making me upset, so I didn't want to dwell on it. But then, I walked into Jon's room one day and he wasn't in his bed. I almost panicked, but I noticed him sitting in the chair by his window before I jumped to conclusions. 

"Hi, Jon," I said. Jon looked up and turned to see me standing there. 

He gave me a small smile, which I gratefully returned. It was always nice to see that smile on his face. "You don't usually sit over there."

Jon didn't say anything - of course. He simply looked back down at his lap. I slowly walked closer and closer to him and as I did, I realized that he was holding something steady on his knees. My heart leapt in spite of myself. I really didn't want to get my hopes up, but I couldn't help it. 

"Are you...writing something?" I said, hesitantly peering over Jon's shoulder. Again, Jon looked up at me - almost with an expectant look on his face - and I looked down at the notepad. 

There, on the paper was the entire crossword from that day's _New York Times._ Jon had completely copied the puzzle - square for square, word for word. It was perfect, it was like Will Shortz himself had done it. 

"Wow...Jon," I stammered. I wasn't sure what to make of it. Jon was smiling slightly as he admired his handiwork. I looked around - the newspaper was nowhere to be found. I slowly realized that Jon hadn't been copying the puzzle at all. "Jon...did you do this by memory?"

Jon simply looked up and smiled even wider at me. Carefully, I reached down to touch his shoulder. He let me - he didn't wince or flinch away. I rubbed his shoulder softly, relishing in the feeling of touching him once more. I wondered, for just a moment, if I could lean down and kiss him. 

The moment passed. Jon looked back down at his notepad and I mentally shook myself - reminding myself of the state Jon was in. When I came back to reality, Jon was holding the notepad up to me. I gave him a questioning look but, of course, he had no explanation for me. I took the notepad from him and he nodded. 

"You want me to have it?" I asked. Jon nodded again and I smiled at him. "All right, if you say so. Thanks."

I tore the top sheet off the notepad, folded it, and placed it in my pocket. I felt the urge to brush Jon's hair away from his face, but I squelched it. I was too worried about the reaction Jon would have. I caught sight of the clock on the wall. 

"Oh, Jon, I've got to get to work." Immediately, Jon's smile fell away from his face and I felt like shit. "I'll see you later on for dinner. Okay?"

Jon nodded sadly. I forced myself to walk away and didn't look back because I knew the expression on Jon's face would only hurt me more. 

I didn't think about Jon's crossword until later that night, when I was sitting on the couch with a book. Reading had become my escape again - just like it had when I lost my brothers and father. It was a different world that I could fall into and forget my troubles. When the clock made the loud, clicking noise it always made when it switched over to midnight, I had to set the book down. 

As I was getting ready for bed, I came across the crossword in my pocket. I really had to admire his handiwork - every square was perfectly drawn. The answers were scribbled in too, but they weren't so perfect - they were written in Jon's sloppy handwriting. I touched the paper, letting my fingers ghost over the words he'd written in the boxes. It was my only connection to him. I knew we were supposed to be reigning him in, but I just felt like he kept drifting away. 

The next day at Jon's therapy session, I asked Kenneth if I could have a word with him. Poor Jon was made to stand at the door again and I promised myself I'd make this quick so he wasn't standing there longer than he had to. 

"Yes, Stephen?" said Kenneth. 

"Um...the other day, I went into Jon's room and I saw him using his notepad."

"Oh, I know," he said. I raised an eyebrow at him. "Yes, Dr. Roberts brought me Jon's notepad yesterday night because he said I should see what Jon was writing."

"Oh?" I said. Had Jon written something after I'd left? Kenneth hurried over to his desk and took a piece of paper out of one of his drawers. He thrust it into my hand so I could examine it. I knew what it looked like instantly.

"The skyline," said Kenneth. "Jon has been drawing the skyline."

"Why would he be doing that?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I frowned and Kenneth saw that it plainly wasn't. He sighed and continued on. "You said that Jon had come to the city years ago to really start his life. Obviously, one of the first things you see when you enter the city is the whole skyline in front of you. That's bound to leave a lasting impression on you. And Jon has made his entire career here, so it means a lot to him."

"So...you're saying that the skyline is tied to some of Jon's most powerful memories?" I said. "And that's probably why 9/11 had such an effect on him?"

"I don't think there's any doubting that," he said. "This could be important."

I nodded. "So, what should we do?"

"Well, judging by this, Jon seems to feel more comfortable expressing himself through drawing. This doesn't come as much of a surprise to me, though. PTSD patients often have more success when expressing their feelings artistically. When trauma is this severe - that a patient refuses to talk at all - then art is very helpful in getting them to express what's going on inside them."

I nodded. "What do you suggest we do?"

Kenneth grinned at me. "I'm going to get Jon a set of paints."

******

As it turned out, this new, different Jon had a flair for the arts. The day after Kenneth proposed the idea to me, he showed up in Jon's hospital room with a bag from an art supply store.

"I've got a surprise for you, Jon," he said, grinning. Jon gave him a quizzical look but his eyes lit up as Kenneth pulled a paint set, easel, and large sketchpad out of the bag. "Do you feel like painting today?"

If Jon wanted to talk, I think the answer would have been a resounding _yes._ He watched eagerly as Kenneth set up the easel and sketchpad near the window and set the paints on a nearby table. When Kenneth was finished setting up, Jon slowly got out of bed and walked to the easel. Kenneth and I watched, on tenterhooks, as he picked up the paintbrush and began to make experimental strokes in a garish shade of orange. 

I grinned at Kenneth. "Thank you."

"No problem," he said, grinning back.

Kenneth left and I sat on the edge of Jon's bed, just watching him. He was wearing his black sweatpants and that favorite gray t-shirt of his that was beginning to get worn out from all the use. It may have been the most informal dress I'd ever seen on a person, but I thought Jon looked as handsome as if we'd been at the Emmy awards. The hospital had recently given him a haircut, so his graying, curly hair had been snipped so it was no longer falling on his forehead. 

I knew I had to get to work, but I felt so happy - happier than I had been in a while - to just sit here and watch Jon experiment with his paints. He smoothed the paintbrush up and down the paper in long strokes, creating big rectangular blocks all overlapping each other and arranged neatly. I couldn't make out what he was drawing. He'd reach down to his palette, pick a new color and create another rectangle on the page.

I sat there for twenty minutes as he reached down to the palette and back up to the sketchpad over and over. Finally, he stopped reaching down for more color and took a slight step backward from his painting. I peered around him and could tell immediately what it was.

"The skyline," I said, in a hushed voice. Jon didn't say anything or move from his spot. 

I got up from the bed to stand next to Jon as he stared at his finished project. "Why did you draw the skyline, Jon? What does it mean?"

Jon just stared forward at his painting. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, but it was almost as though he were in a trance. Finally, he furrowed his brow, reached out and flipped the easel page so that his work was gone. He stared at the new blank page and then looked over at me. 

I nodded in encouragement. "That's right. Start again - you can draw whatever you want."

Jon smiled slightly and turned back to the easel to begin a new piece. But the "new" piece wasn't new at all. As I continued to watch, Jon drew five different versions of the same painting. Every single painting was the skyline; only the color differed from piece to piece. I did notice something interesting - he painted the skyline as it was now, without the World Trade Center. 

I was so taken with the images Jon was painting that I completely forgot I had to get to work. Instead, I told Jon I was leaving and - after a nod of assent from him - I went off in search of Kenneth's office. I found it quickly and found him, luckily, inside.

"Stephen!" he said, looking very surprised to see me. "What's up? Is anything wrong?"

"No," I said. "I just...I've been watching Jon paint for the past hour and, I don't know, I needed to tell someone. He just keeps painting the same thing over and over."

"Oh?" said Kenneth, sitting forward in his seat. "What does he paint?"

"He just keeps painting the city skyline," I said. "In different colors. What could that mean?"

I couldn't hide the fact that I was slightly disappointed with what Jon was painting. Kenneth gave me an understanding smile and motioned for me to sit down. 

"Stephen, I know you're very discouraged," he began.

"I just don't know what else we're supposed to be doing!" I burst out. "I mean, he starts drawing so we give him the paints. And now, it's like.... it’s like he doesn't even want to get better!"

Kenneth took a moment to let my exclamations settle in the room around us before speaking. "Stephen...I know we can't ask Jon what _he_ thinks, but I think that I can say with some certainty that he doesn't want to be in this condition."

"How can we be sure?" I sighed, dragging my fingers through my hair. "I mean...I don't know what I mean. This is just so damned frustrating. We're giving him medication, you're doing work with him nearly every day, and I just don't know what else to do."

"Stephen, are you a man of faith?" 

I looked up from my lap to meet Kenneth's concerned gaze. Slowly, I nodded. "I suppose I am."

"Then pray," he said. "Do whatever you need to do. Just, please, don't lose hope in Jon."

I cocked my head to one side. "Why are you so concerned?"

Kenneth sighed. "I've watched the two of you for the past few months during every single session I've had with Jon. I can tell how much you mean to each other. Jon doesn't need to be able to speak to tell me how much he cares about you. And, you obviously care for him as well. You're the one champion that Jon has in this world right now. Certainly, the doctors and I are on his side - but not in the way that you are. He _needs_ you to care."

"I do care," I said in a small voice. 

"I know," said Kenneth, nodding. "But I also know how frustrating this can be. I've seen it with some of my other patients' parents. I think it helps to have someone to talk to. Do you have anyone you could meet with and just talk this all out?"

I thought, and my mind strayed immediately to Paul. Again, I nodded. 

"Yeah, I do."

"I suggest you spend some time with that person and just get this all off of your chest. That way, you can come to visit Jon with your mind clear of that frustration, and you can start again."

I nodded once more. "Thank you, Kenneth."

******

I called Paul again for the next three weekends. Jon went to sleep around eight o'clock these days, so I slipped out after that and met Paul at the coffee shop down the street. I had been so busy and so preoccupied with all that my life had become, that I'd forgotten how nice it was to _talk_ to someone.

"We were fighting," I said one night. It was something that had occurred to me a few nights earlier. "Just before all this happened. We had a fight the night before. We didn't talk all night. And now he might never talk again. What was the point of that fight? Why the hell did we have to fight?"

"You couldn't have known," said Paul. "None of us knew. How could you predict something like that was going to happen when you woke up?"

"I couldn't," I sighed. I ripped my glasses off my face and rubbed my weary eyes. It seemed I was always tired these days. 

"How is he doing?" asked Paul. 

"Like you care," I shot back. 

"No, really," he said. "I want to know. It's bothering you, you're losing sleep...talk to me about it."

"You don't care about him," I said. "I don't want to just vent to you when you don't even give a shit."

Paul hesitated. "I...care about you. Maybe I just want to hear your feelings? Talking it out can help."

I stared at him. What was he playing at? I didn't know what to make of the concerned look on his face. In the past, we'd been very close, but not in the way that Jon and I were. Paul and I never had that connection that bound two people no matter what. We hadn't been the types to pour out our feelings, our hopes and dreams to each other. Mainly it had been about the sex. But now here was Paul, ready and willing to hear my woes and I couldn't quite figure out why. I sighed deeply. I needed this and he knew it. 

"Fine. But I don't know what your angle is."

Paul frowned and held up his hands. "Angle? Who says I have an angle?"

"You always have an angle," I replied, smirking in spite of myself.

"Look," he said. "Just get stuff off your chest, okay? I'm here."

I rubbed my hands roughly over my face. He was right, and this was just what Kenneth had suggested. "Well, the psychiatrist gave him a notepad so he could write stuff down. All he did was draw. So now they gave him some paints and stuff and he keeps drawing the same thing over and over."

"What does he draw?"

"The skyline," I said. "Over and over, in different colors each time. I know what it means, we all know what it means. He's traumatized that the city was ruined, that it got damaged when it's been such a haven for him. I just...I just wish he'd say something or at least draw something that could be interpreted differently."

To my great surprise, Paul reached across the table and took my hand. He began to gently rub my knuckles with his thumb. It was soothing and comfortable - I hadn't had human contact like this in months. I closed my eyes and let a breath out slowly through my nose. I heard Paul chuckle a little. I opened my eyes to see Paul inches from my face, smiling sweetly at me. He had plainly been about to kiss me. I drew back and pulled my hand away from Paul's, my eyes wide.

"What's wrong?" he said. 

"I...you know I can't," I stammered. 

"Why not?"

"Jon," I replied. "Jon's in the hospital, for fuck's sake. I should not be doing this. I shouldn't even be here with you!"

Before Paul could say anything else, I got up and left the coffeehouse. 

Instead of going home, I walked the short distance back to the hospital and crept up to Jon's room. He was sleeping peacefully - I just wanted to look at him, to remind myself why I was going through all of this grief. It was all for him. I had to stay strong in my belief that he'd get better. He was counting on me.

******

I eventually did go home that night. I knew there was no possible way for me to spend the night comfortably at the hospital and I had to be awake in the morning to see Jon. I only stayed a few minutes to watch Jon's peaceful face as he slept.

The next morning, I got up early despite the insufficient amount of sleep I'd gotten. I quickly dressed, grabbed the paper that had been delivered to the apartment, and set off for the hospital. I needed to see Jon, I needed to be with Jon. The only thing that would keep me away from Paul was to stay near Jon, to remind myself what really mattered. 

On my way to Jon's room, I met Doctor Roberts in the hallway. He seemed to be on the way to his office and Jon's room was on the way so I followed him. We didn't talk much. I think he could sense that I resented him for Jon's lack of progress. 

"How's Jon this morning?" I asked, trying to break the ice between us. 

"Fine, fine," said Dr. Roberts, nodding, his eyes still cast down at his clipboard. "I gave him the paper to read and he seemed very glad of that."

I froze. "You...what?"

"I gave him the paper to read," he repeated. 

"Are you kidding me? What were you thinking?" I nearly shouted at him. 

I dug in my bag and pulled out the paper I had brought. " _I_ bring him the paper every morning."

"Well, what difference does it make who gives him the paper?" 

"You don't understand!" I said. "I get rid of the front page. He can't see that. They're still talking about September eleventh and now they've got a bunch of articles on Iraq. I don't want him to see that!"

Before Dr. Roberts could say anything more, I took off down the hall to Jon's room. I was so frenzied that I ran right past and had to backtrack to rush inside his room.

Jon was sitting upright in his bed, his eyes glued to the front page of the paper. He was frowning slightly, a troubled look on his face. I approached the bed slowly.

"Jon? Jon...whatever you see there, it's okay. Okay? Nothing's wrong, no one is going to hurt you."

Jon's grip on the edges of the paper grew tighter and tighter until finally he crumpled the newsprint between his fingers. His eyes grew wide and his grip relaxed on the paper. Without a change in expression, he let the paper fall. It rested on his legs and then slipped off the bed onto the floor, coming to rest in a heap at my feet. 

And then, just as the newspaper had come apart, Jon began to separate at the seams. 

As I watched, Jon's breathing grew heavier and heavier. He threw the blanket off his legs and leaned forward, bringing his legs up to his chin. He hugged himself around the legs and buried his face in his knees. 

"It's okay," I said, beginning to move forward. "It's okay, baby. Everything's all right. You...you're safe now."

Dr. Roberts - who had entered the room behind me - grabbed my arm and held me back. "No, don't touch him. We don't know what that might trigger."

"He _needs_ me," I growled, wrenching my arm from Dr. Roberts' grip. I rushed forward and put a comforting arm around Jon's tense shoulders. "Jon...there's nothing to be afraid of. We're not going to let you get hurt."

I had no idea what to say to make Jon feel better. It seemed as though he were experiencing intense pain. His eyes would scrunch closed and he would almost be holding his breath as his whole body tensed, every muscle straining against some invisible force. Then, when he couldn't stand it any longer, he would let go. His muscles would relax and he'd be left exhausted and panting, still curled up in the fetal position. 

"Jon..." I murmured, absolutely stricken and dumbfounded by how he was acting. I turned back to look at Dr. Roberts. "This is why I don't let him see the fucking paper!"

"You couldn't have hidden it from him forever, Stephen," he said. "He would have seen something, somewhere eventually that would trigger this response."

"What do I do?" I said, watching helplessly as Jon tensed once more. This time he didn't close his eyes and he gazed at me, almost pleading for me to help him somehow, to end his pain. I whirled around to the doctor again. "Help him!"

"Stay with him," he said. "I'll be right back."

I knelt on the hard tile surface next to Jon's bed and stroked his hair gently. "It's okay, Jon. Please. Just..stop. Stop hurting yourself. You're not in danger here. I...I love you."

No matter what I said, Jon's condition didn't change at all. I felt utterly stupid and impotent. There was nothing I could do. Silent tears leaked from the corners of Jon's eyes. I brushed them from his face as he breathed heavily before going into another spasm. Finally, Dr. Roberts returned and he brought with him a nurse who was wielding a syringe. 

"You're going to drug him?" I exclaimed. "That's your answer?"

"Were you helping him at all?" the doctor asked. 

I sighed and shook my head. "No."

"Then this is the only option we have."

"Won't he just tire himself out eventually?"

"Perhaps," he said. "But do you really want him to remain in this pain for that long?"

I looked down at Jon. His eyes locked with mine once more as he clenched his teeth and hugged his legs tightly. I stared right back at him and tried to find meaning in his eyes. I imagined that, perhaps, he was telling me to do what I had to to save him from himself. I searched for some sort of justification for pumping him full of medication, as I had been for the past few months. I lied to myself because I couldn't stand to see Jon in this condition for a second longer. 

"Go ahead," I said, finally. Dr. Roberts nodded to the nurse and she struggled with Jon to unlock his arm from around his legs. It was difficult, but she finally got a hold of his wrist. Dr. Roberts found a vein and swabbed the skin with alcohol. I grimaced, almost feeling a stab in my own arm, as the nurse stuck the large needle into Jon's arm. I couldn't look at him as the drug was emptied into his veins. I didn't want to see anything there that would make me feel guilty. I'd had no choice. 

Within seconds, Jon's body relaxed. I stood still, anticipating the next cycle when Jon would tense again, but it never came. He remained relaxed, his limbs turned to jelly, a stupid expression on his face. Dr. Roberts and the nurse carefully moved him into a comfortable position and tucked him under the blanket once more. 

"That dose should last him for a while," said Dr. Roberts. I shook my head as though coming out of a dream at the sound of his voice. "He may sleep on and off for the rest of the day...but he certainly won't have another episode like that."

"Good," I said, nodding my head mechanically. "Th-thank you."

Dr. Roberts met my unsteady gaze and frowned. "You shouldn't stay here."

"No," I said, quickly. "No, I want to. Please. Just let me be with him."

Dr. Roberts hesitated for a moment, but eventually nodded to me. "All right. Call me if anything happens."

I nodded in return. Dr. Roberts left and I pulled a chair up to Jon's bed, sitting down and taking his limp hand in mine. His eyes were already drooping, he was already beginning to fall asleep. I clutched his hand tightly, wishing he could tell me how he was feeling, what he was feeling, how I could help him. Instead, his head drifted to one side and he fell into a medicated sleep. 

"I love you," I whispered, trying desperately not to cry. For the first time in months, I felt like I wasn't strong enough to handle this.

Jon ended up sleeping quite a bit during the day. He only awoke for a few brief moments at lunch. A nurse brought in a bowl of soup on a tray and suggested that I feed him. I got so angry when she said this - he wasn't my grandfather in a nursing home, for God's sake, he was _Jon._ Nevertheless, he hadn't eaten a thing all day and I knew he really should eat something. So I carefully spooned the soup into his mouth. It took a while to even get him interested in the soup, but he ate half of the bowl before falling back asleep.

The weight of the sadness in the room pressed on me until I had to leave to tape the show that evening. Just a few days before, Jon had been painting by the window. I had felt frustrated with his repeated paintings of the skyline, but that was preferable to the state he was in now. 

I taped the show, trying my best to stay cheerful around the correspondents and crew members. It was easy to deliver the material that evening. There was nothing I was more comfortable with than putting on a mask and pretending nothing was wrong. The audience gave me a high from their laughter and I was actually able to forget for a while. But by the end of the show, I was dragging. I knew what I needed. I knew it wasn't good for me, but I needed something. 

I called Paul and he agreed to meet me at a bar somewhere between his apartment and the studio. 

"Is something wrong?" he said, when he first saw me. 

What a trivial question, I thought. I knew I must look like a mess now that I'd wiped off the makeup and the hair gel from the show. The pretense was gone, and I was sure my melancholy was all but flooding off me in waves around the room. 

"I'm not doing so well," I said. Paul's expression was immediately one of concern as he steered me toward a bar stool. 

"What happened? Is Jon okay?"

I shook my head. "Not really. He had an attack this morning."

"What do you mean?"

I looked up, about to explain, when the bartender approached us for our orders. I nodded to him. "Vodka on the rocks, please?"

"Miller Lite," said Paul. He turned to look at me. " _Vodka?_ Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," I said, smiling sardonically. 

"Stephen...what happened?"

"The stupid-ass doctor gave him the newspaper this morning," I said. "Jon saw the front page where they were talking about building that monument for 9/11 where the towers used to be. He froze and then he curled up on the bed and just kept shaking. It was terrible."

I paused to take a sip of my drink, which had just been placed in front of me. I coughed a bit - that was damn strong stuff. 

"Why did that happen? I mean, just because he saw the front page of the newspaper? What the hell?" said Paul, taking a long drink of his beer.

"The doctor said that some sort of stimulus might make him react this way," I said, taking a quick, harsh swig of my drink. "That's why I was keeping the front page away from him, I knew it wouldn't be good. And look! I was right."

"Wouldn't he have seen something that would make him react like that no matter what you did?"

"That's what the damn doctor said."

Paul recoiled from me a bit, as though he was worried I might hit him. I couldn't deny the fact that I really felt like hitting something just then. 

"I'm just...you know, I'm sick of not getting any results," I said. 

"I'm so frustrated with the whole thing. I want something to work, damn it."

"You have to be patient," said Paul. I had to give him kudos, he was being pretty damn supportive despite the fact I could slug him in the face at any moment. 

"I have been patient!" I burst out. "And I'm...fucking sick of losing people. I already lost my father and two of my brothers for Christ's sake. Isn't that enough?"

"You have me." I looked up from my glass to see that same tender, understanding expression Paul had worn back in the coffee shop. It was comforting. I decided to push away all my misgivings and mistrust of Paul just for now. It felt good to have someone listen and be truly sympathetic. 

"Right," I said softly, taking another drink. 

"So, shouldn't you be at the hospital? With Jon? I mean, it sounds like he had a rough day, don't you want to be with him?"

Through the haze that the vodka was already creating, I thought that perhaps this was Paul's way of testing me. Of testing the waters for something more later on that night. But my mind clouded before the idea could form fully and I sighed. 

"I just couldn't sit there anymore," I said. "He slept most of the day, he's probably asleep right now. I just...I can't take it anymore - to be around him and not have him be himself. I need some time away."

"Well, I'm here for you," said Paul, smiling at me. 

"I know you are," I said, smiling back. "Thanks."

I honestly hadn't expected to find myself back at Paul's apartment in two short hours. When I'd called him up after the show - that had not been my objective. But, a person who's had three glasses of vodka is apparently, very impressionable. So it was that two hours after meeting up with Paul, we were standing at the door of his apartment. I was giggling at something he'd said and I had my hand in the back pocket of his jeans. 

"Would you just hang on?" said Paul, giggling like an idiot himself. He fumbled inside his pockets, looking for the key to his apartment. "I can't find the fucking...thing."

"Is this it?" I said, bending over to pick something shiny off the carpet. "Hmm. Nope. Doesn't look like a thing."

Paul giggled some more and finally found his keys. "Here they are! What do you know, they were right here all along. Come on, let's get inside."

"You know," I said, stumbling over the threshold. "That's the thing about things, they're always in the last place you'd look."

"I know," said Paul, patting my shoulder. "I know what you mean."

"Come here." I grabbed him around the waist and crushed his lips to mine. Oh, those lips. They'd been the thing of legend in Second City and on the set of _Strangers._ But I knew what they really felt like, and I liked to think I was the only one who knew. 

"Whoa," he said when I pulled away. "Really? You...you don't want to cheat on Jon, do you?"

"Maybe I do," I said, slurring my words painfully. I felt like synapses in my brain weren't connecting correctly. "I'm fucking sick of sitting around and doing nothing. The doctors tell me to wait and pray and that fucking therapist doesn't know anything! I followed the rules for a fucking long time, maybe it's time to cheat a little!"

"Calm down," said Paul, patting my head gently. "No need to get angry."

"Thought you liked it rough," I said, grinning goofily. 

Paul gulped and looked at me as though he couldn't believe I was real. "Yeah...well."

Before he could say anything else, I kissed him again, probing past his lips with my tongue. It felt good - I was in control and I was going to be as rough as I liked with Paul. Life hadn't been too gentle with me lately, why should I be gentle?

Then, suddenly, I lost my control. Paul held me roughly by the shoulders and shoved me hard against the wall. My back ached as it hit the plaster and I winced. The pain seemed to snap my brain back into focus. What was I doing? Before I could say anything, Paul was kissing me again, biting at my lips. Finally, I managed to push him away from me.

"Hey, that fucking hurt."

"You used to love that," he said, dipping his head to kiss my neck. I gasped as he bit down on the skin at my jaw.

"Shit, man, you're hurting me!" I exclaimed, trying to shove him away. 

But he wouldn't relent. My vodka-scrambled mind was panicking. I didn't know what I was getting into. I suddenly felt nauseous and wanted to take back everything I'd said for the past hour. 

"I...I..." I stammered as Paul tongued my bad ear. "I don't want to do this. I really don't want to do this."

"Too late," growled Paul. His voice sounded far away because he spoke into my bad ear. I wondered if he even remembered I couldn’t hear out of that one. 

"No, come on, Paul, this is a mistake," I said, forcing myself to say the words, forcing my brain to send the words to my lips. 

Paul shoved his hand down my pants without even unbuttoning them and I groaned in pain. "Hey, dude, stop it!"

"You haven't had it in months," he said, looking up at me as he probed around, trying to find the opening in my boxers. "Don't tell me you don't want this."

"No!" I shouted at him. "I don't fucking want this and if you don't stop it right now, I'm gonna call the police."

Paul smirked and chuckled derisively until he saw the look on my face. I was dead serious. 

"Look," I said. "I've had too much to drink. So have you. This is _not right._ I thought I wanted this but...God, I don't." 

"Why not?"

I considered my previous answer, that it was because Jon was in the hospital, but that wasn't really it. "I don't love you!"

Paul appeared quite wounded, but he hid it well and came at me with anger instead. "Oh? And who _do_ you love?"

"Jon!" I exclaimed, feeling close to tears now. "I love Jon, okay?"

"Even in the state he's in?"

"Yes. Fuck yes. I don't care what state he's in, Jon is...he's my whole life. And I won't rest until he's better."

"Yeah?" spat Paul. "And what if he never gets better? What the hell are you going to do then?"

"Don't you _dare_ say that," I hissed. "Don't even fucking think it. Jon _will_ get better, even if it's by the sheer power of my faith in him."

"You're kidding yourself," chuckled Paul. It took every ounce of strength I had not to haul off and deck him. I settled for poking him in the chest and getting right up in his face. 

"Listen you little bastard," I whispered menacingly. "I knew you had an angle for fucking _listening to my feelings._ Now I know you just wanted to get in my pants. I should have known. I've got news for you - I don't love you. I don't. I never did. We never had what I have with Jon."

Paul grumbled, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "You have needs. Don't try to fucking pretend you weren't tempted to do something with me. You probably haven't gotten laid in a year."

"Be that as it may," I said, still trying to sound menacing although he'd taken me off guard with that comment. It was absolutely true, but I didn't want him to think I needed him. "I - unlike you - do not run on sex."

We stared daggers at each other for a moment and it became clear to me that Paul was going to try to kiss me again. He started moving toward me but I pushed him away from me roughly. He stumbled, but didn't fall to the ground like I wanted. 

"Fuck you," he spat. "Just remember that I offered. Okay? Go spend the night in the fucking hospital if you want."

"That is what I want," I yelled at him. "And don't fucking call me again. God, I was so _stupid!_ I forgot just what a conniving dickwad you are."

"Stephen," said Paul, his voice eerily calm and low. "Get the fuck out of here before I do something I'll regret."

He didn't have to tell me twice. I rushed out of the apartment and back down to the street as quickly as I could. Once out in the fresh night air, I collapsed on the sidewalk and promptly vomited all over myself. I was still in a vodka-induced stupor, and covered in my own vomit, but even through the haze I knew I’d done the right thing.

******

The next morning, I felt like absolute shit. It was a miracle that I'd made it home after emptying the contents of my stomach all over a New York street. I vaguely remembered stumbling into the apartment around two o'clock in the morning. Now that it was a decent hour and I'd gotten a decent amount of sleep, I couldn't help but thank God I hadn't been mugged or shot or violated.

The light crept into my bedroom and tortured my hangover mercilessly. It was nearly noon and I had about six messages from DJ asking where I was. This only made me feel more like an ass. I took as many aspirin as I could without killing myself and set off to the hospital. My near betrayal of Jon the previous night was making my hangover worse. I felt so guilty and ashamed for almost having sex with Paul. I should have known that's all that he was after. What was worse that I'd been after it for a moment there. Paul was right, unfortunately, it had been a while since I'd had sex. But being unfaithful to Jon was not the answer. 

When I arrived at the hospital, I met Dr. Roberts in the hall yet again. 

"How are you, Stephen?" he asked me. "I mean, after Jon's attack?"

I waved his question away. "I'm fine - how is Jon?"

"He's doing much better this morning," said Dr. Roberts, smiling at me. 

"Perhaps his attack was something of a breakthrough."

I stared at him. "What do you mean? Did he talk? I'll kick myself if he talked when I wasn't here."

Dr. Roberts shook his head. "No, I'm afraid he hasn't talked yet. Apparently, he woke up in the middle of the night and, well...he felt like painting."

"What are you talking about?"

Dr. Roberts gave me a small wink. "Why don't you go and see for yourself?"

I nodded and hurried down the hall to Jon's room. I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't the burst of color that greeted me. I walked inside Jon's room slowly with my mouth wide open in surprise. 

Jon had painted over the window in his room, the window that didn't allow him to see the skyline. He'd completely painted over the blue sky outside with a panorama view of the city's skyline. When the sun shone through the glass of the window, it threw all the color of the paints around the room. 

Plainly put, it was amazing. 

When I finally tore my eyes from the sight at the window, I saw Jon lying peacefully in bed. He had a bit of smile on his face as he slept, his chest rising and falling slowly. I approached his bed quietly, wondering if I should wake him to say hello. I was so immensely proud of him and thought maybe this really was a step toward full recovery. 

I couldn't help myself. I found myself staring at Jon's perfect, pink lips and thinking about how long it had been. Slowly, carefully, I leaned in over him and pressed my lips to his. For a moment, I lost myself in the sensation. I closed my eyes and shifted my head, kissing him ever so softly. When I opened my eyes again, I found that Jon's were open too and he was staring right at me. 

For a split second, I imagined that he kissed me back. And then, the illusion broke. Jon pushed me away from him roughly, a stricken look on his face. I stared at him, taken aback at his sudden, violent reaction to my kiss. His eyes were confused and scared and it broke my heart. I looked down and saw that Jon was pressing the "nurse call" button next to his bed. 

"Jon? What did I do? Jon...don't you remember me?"

Jon wouldn't stop looking at me with those accusing eyes. I felt he could see right through me and knew what I'd almost gone through with the previous night. But that was impossible, he couldn't know. 

"I love your painting," I said, smiling, trying to coax him back into recognizing me. He bit his lip and glanced warily at me. I thought for a moment that he might start talking right then, but he didn't.

The nurse rushed in with Dr. Roberts and they both looked a bit surprised that it was just Jon and me there. 

"What happened?" said Dr. Roberts. "Jon called for the nurse, we thought something was wrong."

"It's nothing," I said, shaking my head. "It's my fault. Jon was sleeping and...I kissed him. I thought it might...I don't know."

Dr. Roberts sighed and there was sadness in every line of his face. He looked from me to Jon and shook his head. "Come with me, Stephen."

I followed Dr. Roberts out of the room, glancing back at Jon who was now being attended to by the nurse. Once in the hallway, it was all I could do to keep from crying.

"What the hell happened?" I said. "I just kissed him. Why was he so...it looked like he was scared of me."

"Stephen," said Dr Roberts. "People with psychological trauma don't have very large personal space bubbles. Have you kissed Jon since 9/11?"

"No," I said. 

"Maybe he just isn't ready to make that particular leap back into his normal life."

"How can he not be ready?" I said, tears welling up in my eyes. "We love each other. At least, he used to love me. What...oh my God."

"Stephen, why don't you go talk to Dr. Dempsey?" said Dr. Roberts. He may have been excellent at what he did, but he clearly wasn't equipped to deal with the emotional crisis I was having. I nodded and started off in the direction of Kenneth's office. 

When I finally made it there, Kenneth wasn't in. I sunk to the floor in front of his office door and just sat there, waiting for him. I felt completely numb. How could Jon look at me with such fear in his eyes after I'd simply tried to kiss him? 

I was lost in thought when Kenneth finally arrived at his office. 

"Stephen?" 

"Oh," I said, shaking my head and looking up at him. "I didn't see you there."

"Is something wrong?"

I pushed myself up from the floor and nodded, tears threatening to leak from my behind my glasses. "Yeah. Something's wrong."

"Why don't you come inside?" Kenneth hurriedly unlocked the door to his office and let me walk in before him. I collapsed in one of the big, fluffy chairs and Kenneth sat across from me after depositing his briefcase on his desk. 

"I heard that the cleaning staff is a little peeved at Jon," he said, smiling gently. "After what he did to the window, he's certainly not going to be their favorite patient."

When Kenneth saw that I wasn't smiling in return, his face fell and he was suddenly solemn. "What's going on, Stephen?"

"He pushed me away," I choked out. "I was just in his room and I kissed him and he pushed me away. He...he looked so scared of me."

I looked up at Kenneth and saw that he looked nearly as saddened as I felt. He sighed deeply. "Did Dr. Roberts explain to you about personal space with psychological trauma patients?"

"Yes," I said. "And I don't give a shit. I want to know why the hell my boyfriend looks at me that way when I try to kiss him."

"Well, that's why," he said. "Jon hasn't felt very safe for the past few months. No matter what you did for him at home or what we do for him here, he has not felt safe. That's why he still isn't talking. And something like a kiss or a hug can shock that sense of already feeling unsafe."

"But, I thought we were making progress," I said. "Jon's been painting and he had that so-called breakthrough when he saw the newspaper. I thought he'd be getting better soon."

"Sometimes it's darkest before the dawn."

"What the fuck does that mean?" I said, almost spitting the words at Kenneth. "That doesn't help me at all. Jon is...Jon is not who he used to be, and I can't take that anymore."

"Stephen, don't give up on him," he said. "Please. Jon needs you."

"Yeah, you keep saying that," I said. "But I don't see you sitting up late with him at night and I didn't see you there the other day when I had to authorize them to pump him full of drugs so he'd stop exhausting himself."

"That's because Jon needs you, not me."

"Yeah, well, he certainly didn't seem to need me a minute ago," I said. 

"I think I can safely say that he wanted me the hell out of there. How am I supposed to deal with that? How am I supposed to deal with the fact that the person I love most deeply in this world has become someone I don't even know?"

Kenneth winced and opened his mouth a few times as though to say something. Finally, he leaned forward in his chair and looked at me gently. "Stephen, have you cried since this happened?"

I sighed. "No. I haven't."

"I think you need to have a good, long cry. And...maybe you should take a break from your hospital visits."

"No, that's stupid," I said. "I can't stop coming, that means I've given up on him."

"No, it doesn't," said Kenneth. "It means you're giving yourself some space. You can only be a good champion for Jon if you're taking care of yourself first."

I shook my head. "I can't be away from him. I...I almost cheated on him last night, Kenneth. That's what happens when I try to get some space."

Kenneth pressed his lips together in a tight line, clearly unsure what to say to that. Finally, he took a deep breath. "Nevertheless...I think you need to take a break. Clearly, these visits are taking a toll on you."

"Only because I keep being disappointed!" I said. "If we'd have some progress, then maybe - "

"We can't control Jon's progress, I'm afraid," said Kenneth. "All we can do is give him the medication, continue the therapy sessions and hope for the best."

"Hope," I snorted. 

"See, you can't get cynical on us, Stephen. You need to take a break and then come back, refreshed and ready to keep fighting for Jon."

"I guess you're right," I said, conceding finally. 

"I am, trust me," he said, smiling. "Now go home and cry and just relax."

"I'll try," I said.

******

The next morning, I woke up and my first thought was of Jon. I immediately had a nagging feeling like I was supposed to be somewhere. But I'd made a pledge to myself to take Kenneth's advice. Maybe he was right about stopping the visits for a bit. After all, I'd scared Jon the last time I was there. Maybe he wanted some time away from me too.

Still, it felt so wrong to just be going about my day and to not even have a visit in my schedule. DJ was singing my praises for spending more time at the office. I began to get more involved in the writing process of the show. I was always around for consultation on a joke or a segment, but I hadn't actually been in a writer's meeting since 9/11. 

"See, now you can start complaining about the jokes because you had a hand in writing them," joked DJ. 

"Right," I said, chuckling half-heartedly. 

"No, seriously, how are you doing?" he asked me. 

I shrugged. "That's a really silly question, isn't it?"

"Sorry," said DJ, hanging his head. "I really didn't mean to be...you don't have to get all defensive. I wanted to know how you were."

"I didn't mean to be defensive," I said, rubbing my eyes roughly. "I...it's just tough, you know? 

"I know," said DJ. I stared at him for a moment and then shook his head. "Okay, no I don't. That was stupid to say."

"It's okay," I said. "Just imagine that the person you love most is in the hospital and gets spooked when you try to kiss them."

DJ winced. "I'm really, really sorry, man."

"I know you are," I said. I clapped him on the shoulder and headed down the hall to my own office. 

He really had no idea. 

Before I knew it, it had been an entire week since I'd been to the hospital. This painful reality hit me one day in the shower. I thought I was having a good day - I'd gotten a call from DJ who said they were going to hold an early writer's meeting. Glad of something to distract me more, I'd told him I would be there. So, I'd hopped in the shower to clean up before heading to the office. 

The shower was a great escape. The pounding stream of water could drown out my thoughts and I could simply relax in the surrounding steam. After a few minutes of just letting the water pelt my back and then my face, I reached for the shampoo. My eyes were still closed against the water so I must have picked up the wrong bottle. When I popped the cap, the smell of Jon suddenly flooded the shower. 

My eyes snapped open in surprise. I had picked up Jon's shampoo by accident. That clean, intoxicating smell of his Old Spice shampoo filled my nostrils and all at once, I was jettisoned back in time, to a time when Jon had been himself and we'd both been so happy. I remembered when we used to shower together. I would wash Jon's hair and joked that he could never wash mine because he couldn't reach my head. As soon as we were all rinsed off, Jon had chased me into the bedroom and taught me a lesson for teasing him. 

So much had changed since then. We were no longer those smiling, laughing people. Of course, Jon had changed, but I realized that I had changed too. I no longer took pleasure in my job because Jon wasn't there anymore. I no longer left the apartment unless it was to visit Jon at the hospital. With Jon in the state he was, I felt as though a part of myself had been cut off and thrown away. I was incomplete without him. 

Suddenly, I felt that 'good cry' that Dr. Dempsey had prescribed creeping up on me. I fell back against the tile of the shower stall and took a few deep breaths. This had not been in my plan. I'd thought Jon and I were invincible just because we were in love. Turns out that made us more vulnerable than I could have imagined. I knew the only reason this hurt so much was because I loved Jon so deeply. 

Before I knew it, I was a sobbing, blithering mess. Tears streamed down my face and mingled with the stream from the showerhead. It was disgusting, four-year-old, runny nose bawling but it felt so good. I hadn't even realized I'd been holding all of that in. How could someone be so sad every day but not cry? I guess I'd numbed myself for Jon's sake, I had needed to be strong for him. But now, in the shower, away from prying eyes of the public and the doctors' empty words, I let it all go.

In a strange moment of serendipity, Dr. Roberts gave me a phone call not an hour after I had my embarrassingly mucus-filled breakdown. I was getting ready to leave for the office - the better to distract myself further to keep from crying again - when the phone rang. 

"Hello?"

"Hi, there, Stephen."

I was a bit surprised to hear Dr. Roberts' voice on the other end of the line. It was odd, but I hadn't given the hospital a thought for a week. I'd thought of Jon - of course - but I really hadn't thought about his situation. That only would have made me more depressed. 

"What's up?" I said. "Is anything wrong?"

"No, you just haven't been to visit in a while. I thought I'd let you know how things were progressing."

I nearly scoffed at him when he said this. There hadn't been progress when I was there, I doubted there was now that I'd left. "Okay."

"We're still giving Jon his medication," said Dr. Roberts. "He's been painting more and more but we've been keeping away from the walls at the direction of the staff."

Dr. Roberts chuckled a little and I couldn't help but snicker myself. Now that I thought about it, painting all over the window when he wasn't supposed to was a very 'Jon' thing to do. 

"Has he had any more attacks?" I asked, unsure whether I wanted to hear the answer. 

"Just one," said Dr. Roberts. "A few hours after you left last week, he seized up and started shaking again. We're not sure what caused this one, though."

I let out a low breath. "Was it bad?"

"Not as bad as the first one," he said. "But, still, not pretty."

We were both quiet for a while in the wake of this news. I wasn't sure if Jon would continue having attacks or if that one would be the only one. It looked as though that was something I'd have to learn to get used to. Just one more thing that was too hard to watch. 

Dr. Roberts broke the silence first. "Why don't you come back for a visit, Stephen?"

I sighed. "I don't know if I can. Not yet."

"I'm sure Jon misses you."

"Does he?" I said, a bit testily. "Dr. Roberts...you don't know what it felt like to see that look on Jon's face. He was...he was so scared of me. He's looked confused sometimes in the mornings before, but I've never seen that kind of fear on his face when he looked at me."

"Stephen, kissing him was a pretty major breach in his personal space. Do you know what I mean? It was pretty forward of you."

I ran a hand through my hair and sat down heavily on the couch. "Dr. Roberts...are you married?"

"Yes, I am."

"Can you imagine someone telling you that kissing your wife was an invasion of her personal space? That simply showing her you loved her was enough to hurt her?"

Dr. Roberts gave a heavy sigh. "I know. I know it's hard, Stephen, but Jon loved when you would visit."

"Look," I said. "The past few months have been very long and very difficult for me. I have had to get to know Jon as a completely different person. But I've dealt with it. I've dealt with a hell of a lot, okay? But, I...this is too much. I can't take it. It hurts too much, okay? And maybe that makes me weak or selfish, but it hurts. I can't help that. I think Dr. Dempsey was right when he suggested I take some time off. Maybe I need some time for me."

"Whatever you think is best, Stephen," said Dr. Roberts after an exceptionally long pause. "But, please, consider coming for another visit soon."

"I will," I said. "Just..um..call me if anything happens."

"Of course," he said, and we hung up.

Once I was off the phone, I sprawled out on the couch, exhausted by the conversation. Dr. Roberts had forced me to say things I hadn't really wanted to say out loud. I felt terrible already for saying them, but perhaps I did need some 'me' time. I'd been going non-stop since the previous September. Perhaps some relaxation was in order. 

Despite all of this, I was unable to keep Jon from my thoughts. I thought about him every night before I went to bed and nearly all the time while I was at work. Staying away was hard, but I knew it couldn't be as hard as seeing Jon the way he was.

~~~~~~~~~~

******

~~~~~~~~~~

******

Late on a Tuesday night, something amazing happened. It was a rather ordinary night at the hospital by anyone's standards. The nurses tucked in Jon, one of their patients, and made sure he was comfortable for the night. Jon had just finished the crossword puzzle for the day and was feeling quite accomplished.

Once the nurses turned out the lights and Jon was safely under his blanket, he spent some time studying the ceiling of his bed. He usually did this before falling asleep. It had always taken him a while to fall asleep as it was, so he figured he might as well do something while he waited. There was a crack, long and jagged, right above his bed. This worried him - what if it gave out and he was covered with plaster during the night?

Jon turned on his side and decided to stop looking at the ceiling. Instead, he looked around the room. He noticed his painting on the window and smiled to himself. The cleaning people had been _so_ angry.

Suddenly, the empty chair next to his bed caught Jon's eye. When he looked at the empty chair, something inside of him felt off. He couldn't figure out what it was, though. That same odd feeling had been plaguing him for the past week and a half, whenever he looked at the chair. Something was missing from his room, from his life. 

Then it hit him. Stephen. That man who had tried to kiss him a week and a half ago. Stephen was important. Stephen had been with him for the past year, by his side no matter what. He remembered that awful day - Stephen was the only person he'd been thinking about. 

But, where was Stephen now? 

For the first time in nearly a year, Jon felt like he needed to talk. For almost a year, he'd been too afraid to talk; he'd felt too unsafe to even participate in his own life. But now, he felt compelled to call out. Suddenly, Jon felt an overwhelming need engulf him - he needed Stephen, and that overrode his fear. 

Jon opened his mouth and whispered into his empty room. "S-Stephen?"

He grimaced at the ache in his throat and at how scratchy his voice sounded. His voice sounded like it had in the stand-up days when he'd been smoking two packs a day. Smoking...he'd used to smoke. Before that day. And he'd been in stand-up. 

Up until now, Jon's thoughts had been centered around _that day._ They began there and no matter what he thought about, they ended there as well. Yet, now, he was beginning to remember vestiges of things from his life before that day. It was like doors were opening in his mind. 

All at once, he remembered just how special Stephen was and now he really needed him to be there. He opened his mouth again and decided to try just a bit louder. 

"S-Stephen?" Still scratchy, still unbearably hoarse. He coughed a few times and cleared his throat. "Stephen?"

By chance, a passing nurse heard him and she poked her head inside the room. When she saw Jon sitting up in his bed, his eyes brighter than they'd been in months, she knew she had to find Dr. Roberts.

~~~~~~~~~~

******

~~~~~~~~~~

******

When my phone rang at midnight on a Tuesday night I was, understandably, rather perturbed.

"Hello?"

"Stephen? It's Dr. Roberts."

My mind flew in every possible direction. Why the hell was he calling so late on a weeknight? Why did he sound so frenzied? Was something wrong with Jon? I'd been an idiot for not visiting him sooner - what could have gone wrong?

While I was jumping to these conclusions, Dr. Roberts was trying to get my attention. "Stephen? Stephen, are you there?"

"Oh! Um, yes," I said, shaking the scenarios from my mind. "Why are you calling? Is something wrong with Jon?"

Dr. Roberts gave a little chuckle. "Stephen, for once, everything is _right_ with Jon."

In spite of myself, I let my hopes get sky high and smiled just a little. I approached cautiously. "What do you mean?"

"He spoke tonight, Stephen," said Dr. Roberts. 

Thank God there was a couch behind me because my knees gave out as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Before I knew it, tears were running down my face and I was completely overwhelmed with a myriad of feelings. Dr. Roberts, bless him, let me have my moment. 

When I had calmed down, I took a shuddering breath and spoke with a shaky voice. "He...he did?"

"Yes," said Dr. Roberts, and I could hear his smile over the phone.

I took several deep breaths. "W-what did he say?"

"He said your name," said Dr. Roberts. "He just kept saying your name, like he was calling out for you."

I had to hold in a very childish sob at this news. My heart leapt in my chest - this is what I'd been waiting for. At last, all the hard work had paid off. 

"Has he said anything else?" I asked, not even caring that I sounded as though I had bad cold. 

"Yes," said Dr. Roberts. "He asked us where you were and then he asked if he could have a cup of coffee."

I chuckled, grinning from ear to ear. "Oh, that's Jon."

"Would you like to come and see him?"

"Of course!" I exclaimed. "Would they...let me in at this hour?"

"Yes, we'll make sure they'll let you in, Stephen. I'd say this falls under the category of special circumstances."

"Thank you," I said. "And thank you for all your work during this ordeal."

"Stephen, it was my pleasure to work with the both of you, if only if it was to see this astounding end result."

Dr. Roberts hung up and I sprinted to my bedroom to get dressed faster than I ever had before.

******

In no time at all, I found myself walking into the hospital lobby and stepping into the elevator to ride up to Jon's room. I was filled with a bundle of nerves and excitement and - oddly added to the mix - relief. I'd made sure to put on a shirt that I knew Jon liked me to wear. I'd agonized and wondered if I should bring flowers or something, but it was midnight and the flower shops were probably closed. Instead, I just brought myself and I hoped that would be enough.

Jon's room was quiet as I approached the door. I wasn't sure if I had expected a flurry of doctors and nurses taking tests. I didn't know what to expect, honestly. But it turned out there was a hush over his hospital room. As I walked in, the first thing I saw was the moonlight shining through Jon's window painting. 

Then, I saw Jon. He was sitting up in his bed, the moonlight dancing off his graying hair. He turned to look as I walked in and, immediately, the hugest grin overtook his face. 

"Hi, Jon," I said, quietly. 

Jon smiled even wider - if that was possible. "Hi, Stephen."

I almost fell down on my knees and cried again. His voice was very hoarse and sounded worn as though he'd been using it non-stop instead of not at all, but he still sounded like himself. His scratchy voice reminded me of all those late nights during the 2000 election - his voice cracking with frustration and lack of sleep and two packs of cigarettes. Hearing his voice again only proved what I had believed all along - that he was the same Jon underneath all that sadness. 

"I...it's great to see you," I stammered awkwardly. "It's great to _hear you_ , really."

"Stephen," said Jon, as he stretched out his arms. "Come here."

"Are you sure?" I said, hanging back, remembering what Dr. Roberts had said about personal space. 

Jon nodded slowly. "Positive. I need to hug you."

"Oh, thank you," I said, something desperately needy escaping in my voice. I hurried across the room and into Jon's arms. It felt absolutely perfect to be engulfed in his embrace again. I clung to him shamelessly, burying my face in that rotten, old gray t-shirt. "I haven't hugged you in months."

"Almost a year," remarked Jon, holding me just as tightly as I was holding him. 

"I've missed you," I whispered, rubbing his back gently. 

"I've been here the whole time," he said, a chuckle in his voice. 

"Well, you have and you haven't," I replied. "God, it just sounds so good to hear your voice."

Jon didn't say anything, but I thought I heard a small sob escape him as he ran his fingers up through my hair. 

"Are you okay?" I asked him. 

Jon nodded against my shoulder. "Yeah. Better, at least. I...I was so scared."

"I know," I said. "I know you were. But you've got me. You've always had me and you always will have me. I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

Jon gave a watery little laugh. "I think you proved that in the past few months."

"I tried," I said. "God, it was so hard sometimes. I'm sorry I wasn't here for the past week. That was...it was just me being selfish."

"No, it was you getting some space," said Jon. "Don't apologize for it. And, hey, it was your being gone that made me want to talk again."

"So..." I pulled back from Jon and we both wiped our tear-stained faces. "Was it a choice? Were you not talking because you didn't want to?"

Jon frowned as though he were trying to figure something out. "You know, I don't think I can answer that. I don't really know. It felt...it felt like something had been switched off inside of me. I think it's still switched off, a little."

"Don't worry," I said, touching Jon's cheek softly. "We'll make you all better again."

Jon nodded and bit his lip. "Stephen? Thanks. Thanks for sticking by me through all this."

I shook my head. "Please. I don't want thanks. I was here because I loved you and I still do, with all my heart."

Jon looked down at his lap and blushed fiercely. "Thank you."

After a few minutes of silence, I couldn't hold back my curiosity any longer. I turned to Jon. "What, um...what was going through your head in the past year? I mean, God, you were just a shell, Jon. What's been going on this past year?"

Jon took a slow, deep breath and stared at me. "I was really scared, Stephen. That day...it was like the city was falling. You know? I just...this is my home. I know I wasn't born here but, it really is my home. I can't imagine living anywhere else and I just couldn't believe what I was seeing."

Jon looked down at his lap again and I put my arm around him, trying to make him feel more comfortable. "I know, baby, we were all scared."

Jon shook his head. "I know. And I know it's just so...stupid that I was like his because of it --"

"Shut up," I said, cutting him off. "Don't say that. You're not weak because of this, okay? It was a nasty, dreadful, painful situation. Don't ever think badly of yourself because you reacted like this.” 

Again, Jon just looked up at me with watery eyes and I hugged him close. "Thank you," he murmured.

I didn't want to ask him to continue, but he did anyway. "It was like...I saw you through this...mist of confusion. I knew you were here every day, believe me, I knew. It was just like I couldn't figure out why you were."

I nodded and Jon frowned as though he were searching for more of his thoughts. "I remember Denis coming to visit. That was fun. Actually, that was one of the more fun times in the past year - I just completely forgot about the situation when he came to play cards with me. It made me happier."

I couldn't help but feel a bit jealous that Denis was able to distract Jon from his problems more effectively than I had been able to. 

"But what made me happiest of all," he continued. "Was seeing you every morning and every night. I...I can't believe you did so much for me."

I sniffled and rubbed Jon's back. "Don't be stupid. Of course I did all this for you."

"I guess I'm just really lucky to have you," said Jon, his voice cracking midway through the sentence. "I...I think I've still got some things to work through, though."

"I'll be with you every step of the way, baby," I said, leaning over to kiss him on the temple. "It's been a really rough year, but it's all paying off right now."

Jon leaned into me and I hugged him tightly, never wanting to let go again. "Oh," he said. "Thanks for bringing that get well card."

"Oh my God," I said. "I forgot all about that. So...wait, did you realize what I was giving you?"

"Yeah," said Jon, still just lying against my body. "I mean, I remember it. I remember you coming in and giving it to me and...it was like there was a wall inside me. I knew it was there, I knew you were there, and I wanted to say something but...something was holding me back."

"Oh, Jon." I pressed a kiss to the top of his head. 

"I think...I think I was afraid to step out of myself again. I thought that if I did, something terrible would happen again."

Jon pressed his face into my shoulder and I just held on to him. I could tell our problems weren't completely over. Jon may have begun to talk again, but it seemed like he had a lot of things to tell us before he could get back to his old self. 

"I'm making your shirt all snotty," he remarked, pulling away from me. 

"You can make it as snotty and mucus-y as you want," I said, ignoring the expression of disgust on his face. "I've wanted to hug you for a whole year now and a little phlegm isn't going to stop me."

Jon smiled at me. "Oh. Um..also..I wanted to apologize for...that fight we had. You know? Just before the...?"

It took me a minute to realize what he was talking about. When it clicked in my head that he was actually apologizing for the fight we'd had the night before 9/11, I chuckled loudly and hugged Jon again. 

"You're so silly," I said. "Do you honestly think that matters now? After all this?"

"I just wanted to apologize."

"No apology necessary," I said. "I don't even remember what the fight was about. Probably something stupid like you leaving your boxers on the bathroom floor."

At this, Jon let out one of his loud, mirthful giggles and I smiled wider than I had in a full year. That giggle was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard.

******

**EPILOGUE**

"I think you're old enough to take a shower on your own," said Jon, as he pulled his shirt over his head. 

"Yeah, but it's way more fun with you," I replied, following him as he set off toward the bathroom. 

Jon turned back to roll his eyes at me. "You know, one of these days I'd like to take a shower by myself. _In peace._ "

I shook my head. "Too bad. Your little ass is too irresistible."

Jon giggled as he stepped out of his boxers and into the shower. I quickly shucked my pajamas and stepped in to join him. As the water pelted us, I wrapped my arms around his torso and rested my head against his. He leaned back against me as I gently combed his hair with my fingers. 

"See? You love it," I said, quietly. 

"Hmm?" said Jon. "What? This? I just don't have the energy to resist right now."

"I'm glad," I said, smiling to myself. 

As Jon reached for his shampoo and popped the cap open, I breathed in deeply, savoring that scent and hugging Jon closer to my body. I still couldn't believe this half of the time. I couldn't believe that he was at home with me and talking to me again. I knew that eventually, Jon would be home when I wasn't and he'd want to take a shower without me - but for now I was trying to conserve water as much as possible. Because, really, there was a shortage.

When we stepped out of the shower nearly fifteen minutes later, Jon toweled off first and then tossed the towel to me. He went into the bedroom to grab a fresh pair of boxers and I followed him. 

"I've got a therapy session tonight," he murmured, staring down at the bed as he awkwardly pulled on socks. 

"Yeah," I said. "We'll have dinner first and then head over there, 'kay?"

"Sounds good," he said. He didn't look up and smile at me or even sound annoyed. I knew he didn't like the fact that he still wasn't okay, but he tried not to show it. 

"Are we walking to work today or..." I let the question hang as I pulled my shirt over my head.

"Um, we can walk. I guess," he said. 

"Yeah? Are you okay with it?"

Now Jon looked up from his belt and smiled gently at me. "Yes, Stephen. I'm fine."

I nodded back at him and went in search of a pair of jeans. I couldn't help it - nine months later, I was still wary of taking him out in the world. I'd even bought a car - my first one since moving to the city - for those mornings when he just wasn't feeling up to walking the streets. We'd only used it a few times, but I liked knowing that I could offer him an alternative. 

"Oh!" said Jon suddenly, startling me. I backed out of the closet to peer at him quizzically. He was grinning about something. 

"Hmm?" I said, cocking my head to one side.

"Nothing," he said, still grinning. "You'll just have to see when we get to the office."

"What?" I said, smirking. "What is it? Come on...don't make me tickle it out of you. 'Cause I will."

"I know you will," he said, fleeing to the bathroom. I followed him, still sans trousers. 

"Is it a surprise?" I said, hovering behind him as he squeezed toothpaste onto his toothbrush. "Is it a secret?"

"God, you're like a puppy or something," he said, rolling his eyes and beginning to brush his teeth. 

I glared at him. "Fine. You be that way. We'll just see what this is all about..."

Jon didn't say any more about his secret as we walked to work. I didn't bring it up anymore either, not wanting to ruin his surprise - if that's what it was. Jon seemed to be having a good morning and I was infinitely grateful for that. 

For the first few months after he came home from the hospital, the mornings were hard for Jon. As soon as he came home, we had the one year anniversary of 9/11 and that was definitely rough for the both of us. For the most part, we stayed inside, huddled together on the couch. I was just glad that Jon was letting me hug him, because he looked like he needed it. 

Jon didn't go back to work until four months after coming home because he was still waking up in a very depressed state. I was doing all that I could for him, but a cloud of sadness would still hang over him now and again - especially in the mornings. So, I continued my stint as guest host - I still thought of myself as a _guest_ host.

When Jon returned to his hosting duties, the office buzzed with excitement. They had a 'welcome back' cake for him and we had a bit of a shindig after the taping of the show. The audience was so excited to have Jon back, and it felt amazing to do a correspondent piece sitting at the desk with him again. But, at the same time, people were tiptoeing around us for a while. Once they got all the details, they began to feel more comfortable. We were nearing normalcy again. 

When we arrived at the studio that morning, we went off to our respective offices just to get things settled. I'd barely turned on my computer when Jon entered my office, closely followed by Ben Karlin. 

"Um," I said. "Hi, guys. Did I not pay my debts or...something?"

Jon snickered and shook his head. "No, we wanted to talk to you about something."

"Oh?" I sat down slowly behind my desk and prepared myself for whatever was about to come out of Ben's mouth. 

"Okay, here's the deal," said Ben. "You did a really good job hosting while Jon was away. 'Kay? We know that you didn't like substituting for him and stuff because you think it's his show or whatever. That's very noble, but you were great. Seriously."

I wasn't sure where this was going. Had Ben come in simply to praise me for the work I'd finished five months earlier? I looked at Jon, but he just smiled and nodded at me. 

"In light of this," continued Ben. "Well...Comedy Central has approached us with the offer for a new--"

Jon stepped forward and interrupted Ben with a huge grin on his face. "We want to give you your own show!"

I didn't know what to say. I was completely dumbfounded so I just sat there and let the words sink in. Had he really said what I thought he said? I looked up at each of them. Ben was laughing because Jon had just jumped in and ruined his formal announcement. Jon just couldn't stop grinning and staring at me. 

"Um," I said. "Are you serious?"

"Of course we're serious," said Ben. "You did a really great job. We got tons of calls and letters."

"You did?" I said, staring up at him in disbelief. "Where were these letters when I needed a mood booster?"

Ben chuckled. "You're right, we should have shared them with you. Sorry about that. Anyways, what matters is that you were fantastic. And now Comedy Central is offering us a new show if we can come up with an idea and Jon suggested that we give you your own show."

I glanced over at Jon, who was now looking bashfully at his shoes. Since I couldn't catch his eye, I smiled to myself and shook my head. 

"Well, um...only if you guys will help me with it!"

"Absolutely," said Ben, nodding. "I know we can come up with something awesome, guys. I've gotta get to the writer's room so I'll...leave you two alone now."

Ben scurried out of the office and it was just me and Jon. Jon looked up from his shoes finally and smiled cheekily at me. "My own show?" I said, unable to contain a smile. "Jon...you didn't have to do this for me."

"Yeah, I did," he said. "You...you were amazing. Okay? They showed me tapes, you did an awesome job. And after all you did for me, baby--"

"I didn't do it for a promotion," I said quickly. "I don't want you thinking that."

Jon shook his head. "I don't. I just think you really deserve it."

I felt overwhelmed by the offer from Ben and how absolutely sweet Jon was being. I got up from the desk and stand by Jon. Even though he'd told me that it was okay to kiss him, he still mentioned his personal space in therapy sessions. So now, even after nine months, I was still wary of invading that space. 

"I'm gonna kiss you now," I said, smiling at him. 

"Go right ahead," he said. 

I cupped his face in my hands and leaned in to gently kiss him. He slid his hand into my hair and deepened the kiss. When we broke apart, breathless and tousled, I rested my forehead against his. 

"A little steamy for the office, eh?" I joked. 

Jon shrugged. "Nothing they haven't seen before. Hey, just so you know this was the surprise."

"Oh! It was?" I'd forgotten about the 'surprise' as Jon and I had walked to work and it hadn't even occurred to me that Ben's offer might be it. "How long have you known about this?"

Jon shrugged. "About a week, I guess."

"You sneaky little bastard," I said, whacking his arm playfully. 

That night, after taping the show and overseeing post-production, Jon and I went out to dinner at _Mo's Chinese Kitchen._ For a few months after coming home, Jon hadn't really been comfortable leaving the apartment except for his therapy sessions with Kenneth. But then Kenneth had begun to give us small 'assignments' to test Jon's boundaries. First, we went to a store and then a restaurant, and then just walking the streets. Kenneth knew that Jon would have to get back to work eventually, so he gave us these assignments to re-assimilate him into the real world. 

He'd hinted that the last 'assignment' would be standing in Times Square. Confidentially, I'd thought that would be a good time to ask Jon if he would run away to Massachusetts with me to get married. But, that was still just an idea in my head. We'd been through a lot together, and I didn't want to push Jon. 

After eating our dinner, we headed over to Kenneth's office. At first, we had attended sessions still at the hospital where Jon had spent a year. But, eventually I'd told Jon that I didn't feel right coming back to that place after all of the bad memories that had taken place there. Jon agreed - that to go back to the hospital on a regular basis was unnerving - and Kenneth had given us the address of his personal psychiatric office. 

"Hello, again," he said, smiling as he opened the door to see Jon and I standing there. 

"Hi, Kenneth," said Jon, smiling back at him.

"Hi," I murmured, ducking my head as I followed Jon inside the office. 

Kenneth simply grinned at us as we sat down in the large chairs grouped together near his desk. You would think the novelty had worn off, but still he was so excited that Jon was talking again. The first time we'd come to him after Jon started talking again, I thought Kenneth was about to cry when Jon said _hi._

"How are we doing this evening?" said Kenneth, taking his seat across from us. 

As always, I let Jon answer first. It was nice of Kenneth to address me as well as Jon, but the therapy was all about Jon. I didn't want to take away from his time to get better. 

"Pretty good," said Jon, nodding. "Gave Stephen some exciting news today."

"Oh?" said Kenneth, raising his eyebrows at me. 

"He's getting his own show," said Jon, and he positively beamed with pride at me. It felt wholly undeserved since I felt Jon was the one who'd really overcome obstacles and had come a long way in the past year, but I smiled back at him. 

"That's fantastic news," said Kenneth, smiling at both of us. "Now, Jon, how about _you?_ "

The atmosphere sobered as Jon told Kenneth about the panic attack he'd had at the beginning of the week. It had been terrifying, to say the least. It was the first outward sign of Jon's continuing troubles and it had been a surprise to see them so long after he'd been released from the hospital. 

"It was scary," said Jon. "It was...kind of an asthma attack, I guess. But I just felt this gnawing, unrelenting fear in the back of my mind and I couldn't figure out why."

I watched Jon as he related the details of his panic attack. He didn't look up at Kenneth, resolving instead to keep his gaze fixed on his shoes. My immediate instinct was to rub his back or pat his shoulder but something inside told me not to. As soon as that restrictive demand to give Jon his space came up, I remembered that he was on his way to recovery, and that he needed me to be there for him. I squashed that anxiety about comforting Jon, and reached over to rub his back. Jon looked up and craned his neck back to smile at me. 

"But, um, Stephen was there," he said. "He got my inhaler for me and he just kept telling me it would be all right."

"I told you before, Stephen," said Kenneth. "Your Jon's greatest asset in his fight to get well. I'm glad to see you're sticking with him."

"Of course," I said, leaning over to kiss Jon's cheek. 

"I've got to say," said Kenneth, as he packed up his notes for the night. "When you two come in here, it's like you bring a ray of sunshine with you. And it wasn't always that way, not since I've known you. Honestly, it brings me such joy that you've been able to fight your way out of this, Jon."

Jon nodded. "It's all thanks to Stephen."

"Don't say that," I said. "You sell yourself short. I couldn't have made you talk, that was all you. That's because of how strong you are."

"One day we'll be in here and not need tissues, I promise," said Kenneth, passing me the box of Kleenex as my eyes began to leak. 

On the way back to our apartment, Jon and I held hands on the street. He had told me early on that it made him feel more secure when walking in the streets - as well as the fact that he simply liked holding my hand. 

"Do you want to see a movie or something?" I asked him. "We've got tomorrow off, so it's wide open."

Jon wrinkled his nose. "Nah. Let's go see a movie in our living room."

I smiled at him. "Sounds like a plan."

We made our way back home together and once there, I started the popcorn while Jon chose a movie. A bit predictably, he chose _Goodfellas,_ one of his all-time favorites. It wasn't necessarily high on my own list, but I'd learned long ago to put up with it if I was going to live with Jon. 

Once I'd finished making the popcorn, and had poured it into one large bowl, I ventured out into the living room where Jon already had the movie queued up. He'd already changed into his pajamas and was waiting patiently on the couch. 

"Don't you look cozy," I remarked, handing him the large bowl. 

"I'll be cozier if you join me," he replied, winking at me as he popped a piece of popcorn in his mouth. 

I sat down next to Jon and cuddled in close to him. He put his arm around me and I couldn't help the huge smile that broke out on my face. I had spent an awfully long year not being able to touch Jon, so when he took the initiative and touched me, it meant a lot. Jon pressed play and the movie began. As the film wore on, he rested his head against my shoulder and I nuzzled his hair gently with my cheek. 

"I love you, baby," he murmured, as the credits rolled. 

"I love you too," I said. After all was said and done, I felt the fight had been worth it. There had been some pretty low moments, but if the end result was this - having Jon snuggled up against me as he fell asleep - then I knew we were better for having gotten through it all.

  
_Fin._  


**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU:  
> I have an awful lot of people I want to thank and an awful lot of reasons for thanking them. Firstly - to [celli_puzzle](http://celli-puzzle.livejournal.com/) because she (a) helped me cultivate this fic at the very beginning when I had no idea if it was a plot bunny or something lasting, (b) routinely gave me ideas for the fic and came up with a lot of the key elements, and (c) drew the art for this fic. Thanks SO much, bb. <333 Secondly - to [emotionalwench](http://emotionalwench.livejournal.com/) for reading over this fic when it needed to be sent in quickly and for giving some really fab suggestions that definitely made it into the final cut. Lastly, to [kitsunesan](http://kitsunesan.livejournal.com/) for reading it over as well, even though it wasn't fluff (LOL), and for listening to me bitch on AIM for countless evenings. Stay pretty, gals. ;)


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